The Downfall
by 90TheGeneral09
Summary: Alternate version of "The Good Sons", with the POD set in Chapter 78. After getting away with it for years, Henry and Mark finally slip up, and that one mistake may prove to be their undoing.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

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 **A/N: This chapter will focus almost exclusively on the POV of Chris Marshall. It begins with Chapter 78 from TGS, as I noted in the description. Here, we'll see an example of how that chapter came so close to ending differently.**

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On Saturday, May 15, Chris spent the morning cleaning up around the house, the afternoon over at Nicole's- a very enjoyable afternoon, since they had the house to themselves- and the evening over here at the YMCA. Brian D'Aramitz, Andrew Cadiz, Carter Stevens, Michael Cadiz, Mason Sarkozy, Jason and Anthony and of course Henry and Mark had all arrived within a few minutes of each other, and Chris showed up right in the middle of that. They'd gotten right into the main weight room, moving around in groups of two or three and working out with the same enthusiasm as they always did. These guys lived for this stuff, and by now, so did Chris. He loved the excitement and exertion of a good workout, the way he would push himself, tire himself out, and wake up the next day feeling a little sore, but stronger.

Chris no longer struggled to keep up with the guys, not even Jason or Tony. He still couldn't lift or bench what those two could, but he was getting closer all the time. Damn close, in fact, and Jason and Anthony were the first to admit it. They were visibly proud of how they had helped transform Chris, and would even brag about him to the other guys like Chris was some up-and-coming champion and the other two boys were his heroic trainers. Chris was so proud of that, he walked around some days feeling like he was as tall as Henry and Mark. He fully participated in the seemingly-endless bull sessions on sex that Jason and Anthony held any time the three hung out, and by now had plenty of his own stories to share and opinions and ideas to provide. Chris was damn proud of that, too, and he, Anthony and Jason could never seem to stop talking about the fun they'd had in South Carolina during Spring Break.

Jason still didn't seem to quite believe Chris had scored so many times, with such good-looking girls, or that he'd hooked them all up that one day, just like that. Chris was realizing that he had more than earned Jason and Anthony's respect by now- he was proving himself their peer and equal. To have come that far in a year amazed Chris, and put him in awe of the gains he'd made in the weight room. He had come farther than he'd ever thought he would in a single school year, and he had never been more pleased with and proud of himself.

Of course, the redhead had no chance of matching the Evans brothers, but he had long since gotten over that. Nobody could match the Evans brothers in the weight room. But right now, working with a pair of heavy dumbbells alongside Jason and Tony, Chris could look around, just glance at himself, and feel pride and satisfaction at how well he fit in. He dressed like his friends, walked, talked and acted like them, and when he joined them for a workout, he lifted and benched, pushed and ran like them.

He had lost the lanky, average-kid look that he'd been sporting at the start of the school year. Gangly arms had grown thick and heavy with athlete's muscle, his pectoral muscles, shoulders, and abs had all grown vastly more pronounced. After months of just about killing himself to keep up with Tony and Jason, Chris could now do it without any extraordinary effort. He had become used to it. Standing beside his two best friends in a sleeveless t-shirt, Chris felt a surge of pride as he saw the muscles on his pale arms rippling and bulging, relaxing, then bulging again, looking incredibly similar to the other two boys near him.

A whole school year of dedication to fitness and athletics, together with gaining the friendship and assistance of some of the coolest and strongest guys at school, had done wonders for Chris. He could run faster, lift more weight, and do more physical work than ever before in his life. Chris had gone from being just some kid to a varsity athlete, and he looked the part perfectly. The improvements he'd made this year were staggering. He'd gone from average kid to varsity athlete, from new-kid nobody to member of his school's social elite, from virgin to a guy who got laid multiple times a night, multiple times a week, just like the rest of his athlete buddies. Chris had never had such self-esteem. He felt like he could go out and fuck any 8, 9 or 10 he set his eyes on or just go out and conquer the fucking world.

The affinity for weightlifting that he'd picked up the past year was not about to go anywhere, not after all this. For one thing, Chris had every intention of following through on the plan to join Tony and Jason at University of Alabama in the fall, and no way would they let him miss out on going to the gym. But more than that, Chris loved weightlifting, loved working hard to maintain and improve his physique. The pride and self-esteem this had brought him, the simple fun of working out, were all things Chris was practically addicted to at this point. He had every intention of working out frequently for a long time to come.

All around him, boys were huffing and grunting as they worked to push themselves to a strong finish. As usual, a lot of dares, bets and taunts were being made and exchanged. These were some competitive guys, behaving more like a pack of wolves than a bunch of teenage boys. Competition, testing their strength, was a way of life, and there was no better means of testing themselves than against each other. They tested each other verbally as well as physically; giving and taking insults, one-upping each other's tales and bragging of weight-lifting feats and sexual conquests, and just being ready, even eager, to take anybody on at anything was all part of the game.

Chris had become a lot more boastful and arrogant since he'd started running with this crowd; he was talking all the time about how strong he was, how promiscuous and sexually capable he was, and generally how nobody was better at anything than he was. It was damn exciting, being part of this crowd. Chris knew some kids, some people, looked at him and his friends and saw arrogant jerks. Chris didn't care. Everyone wanted what he had. Everyone wanted to be him and his friends: cool, confident, handsome and with the brightest futures you could ask for. Jealousy was behind anyone who disliked them, and nowhere was that more evident than with those underachievers on the soccer team.

Chris was really having fun tonight; he'd been working up a serious sweat and enjoying every moment of it. It continued to amaze him how strong he'd become, how tall he walked and how well he was accepted by everyone he'd hoped to make friends with at his school. From head to toe, Chris had never been in better shape. Lean but buff, square-shouldered and athletic even if he still wasn't a damn powerhouse like Henry and Mark were, Chris had a lot to be proud of and knew it. There was no doubt at all that if he kept this up, he'd be in exactly the same shape as Jason and Anthony.

The three teenagers had been talking about the upcoming first semester of college for weeks. There was so much to look forward to; Chris thought it honestly sounded like four years just like this one were lying ahead. Better, in fact, because the parties and drinking that they'd messed around with this year would be way more accessible and frequent than they were here. They'd be at a school with thousands of students, with several parties every Friday and/or Saturday night. Hundreds of hot girls, all plenty interested in three guys with the looks and charm that Anthony, Chris, and Jason had. It wasn't going to be just like this year- it would be much, much better. Chris was up for that.

Chris finished his last few reps on the dumbbells and gave an exaggerated sigh, his shoulders slumping. Acting like he was insanely exhausted, Chris staggered over to Jason, seemingly barely holding onto the dumbbells he was holding. Forty pounds each, and one was hovering precariously over Jason's right foot.

Jason stumbled back, almost dropping his own dumbbells in the process. "Don't you fucking dare, asshole!" the brown-haired teenager blurted.

The redhead straightened up and smirked. "Never thought I'd see you get scared, Jason."

The other boy scowled as others around him started laughing. "You think you're so fuckin' funny."

"Nah, that little baby carrot you call your dick- that's fuckin' funny," Chris said, and he and all the guys cracked up laughing.

Jason flushed and pointed at Chris. "You're dead, SD. You're fuckin' dead, kid."

But Chris just kept grinning, and eventually Jason started to chuckle, then laugh. He shook his head, setting his weights back on the rack. Chris returned his, and Tony returned his. The other guys were all about done too, so everyone started to head for the showers.

 **XX**

In the showers, Chris participated in the usual horsing around and homophobic jokes that all the guys seemed to love doing. He slapped Tony on the ass once, which he almost instantly regretted: the black-haired senior closed his eyes and moaned. "Just like that," he said, and Chris' face went as red as his hair while everyone else howled with laughter.

Jason finished showering ahead of Chris, and wandered casually by with his towel in hand, rather than around his waist. Chris was busy arguing hockey statistics with Mason Sarkozy, so he hadn't noticed Jason hold part of his towel under the spray before turning his shower off. Nor did Chris notice as Jason twisted that end of the towel into a "rat tail". But Chris did notice when Jason expertly whipped it at Chris' ass, twice in rapid succession. The pain was sharp and abrupt, and Chris, taken completely by surprise, jumped, clapped both hands on his buttocks, and gave a startled yelp that sounded very much like a high-pitched squeal.

Riotous laughter broke out, and Chris' handsome face turned as red as his hair. Jason was smirking at him, and Chris neatly made a rude gesture with one finger.

"They're always doing shit like this," Carter Stevens said.

"This is awesome," Michael Cadiz said. The eighth grade boy was laughing so hard he could barely stand up straight.

"Hey, next year it's gonna be you," Chris said, pointing at the younger ginger.

"Eat my balls, Chris," Mikey shot back. "At least then you'll shut your fuckin' trap."

Chris smiled for a second, then said to himself, "He's all right, that kid!"

"Kid?" Mikey objected, grabbing at himself. "You ever seen a dick this big?"

That set off a whole new round of arguments, with Mikey fiercely trying to assert himself as an equal member of the pack against the jeers and retorts of the older boys. He was at a disadvantage by default, but he had enough spirit that he won some respect anyway. Chris had high hopes for Andrew's younger brother. All the guys did.

 **XX**

Chris had fun for a few minutes as he got dressed, talking with the Cadiz brothers and arguing with both of them about which ginger was the strongest. Mikey gamely challenged Chris to an arm-wrestling contest, which Chris on. Andrew also lost, but like his brother, he was impressed and just said, "Not too bad. You might stand a chance next time. I'll see you around."

As great a time as he'd had working out today, Chris was tired. He sat with his elbows on his knees as the Cadiz boys departed, stopping to speak with Henry and Mark before they went. All at once, he didn't seem to have a lot of energy left.

"You good, SD?" Mason asked nearby.

"Yeah," Chris said, sighing. "Just tired, dude. I better head home. Nobody's gonna be there to wake me up in the morning and when I'm really tired, I can sleep right through an alarm clock."

After pulling a clean blue muscle shirt over his head, Anthony looked over curiously. "Why's nobody gonna be at your house tomorrow morning?"

"My dad's out on his ship and Mom's down in Philadelphia for a wedding."

Jason had just sat down beside Chris to pull his shoes on. He whacked the redhead on the shoulder, looking at him in exasperation and disbelief. "Dude! We could've thrown a party at your place this weekend!" he protested. "Why the fuck didn't you tell us?"

Chris just looked at Jason and said, "See, that's why I didn't tell you. This, right here. That's why, dude."

The muscular, brown-haired boy shoved Chris playfully. "And _this_ is why nobody likes you."

The redhead shoved back. "Admit it. You love having me around."

"I'd rather give up sex than be best friends with a ginger," Jason retorted, pushing again.

"I guess you better tell Brittany the bad news, then, huh?" Chris asked, and he put a little more force into the shove this time. Jason, caught off guard in spite of the playful shoving, nearly fell off the bench.

"Whoah!" he exclaimed, steadying himself. "Damn! Don't kill me, dude."

"Better watch out," Anthony laughed; he'd been enjoying the show. "SD's gonna kick your ass soon, Jason. He's catching up to you."

Jason laughed. "No fuckin' ginger's ever gonna be stronger than me."

"We'll see," Chris said. "I'm full of surprises."

"You're full of shit. That's more like it."

The two boys shoved at each other some more, laughing like a couple of kids, until Tony came in and broke it up. Chris knew Jason actually liked him a lot; he had just set out giving Chris crap for being a redhead from when they first met, and now felt like he'd damage his macho rep if he stopped saying he didn't like Chris. But the way he treated Chris, and the fact that he spent so much time around him, said otherwise. He also insulted Tony fairly often, and yet greatly respected the other boy and had known him for years. It was just how Jason was; he thought getting even remotely sentimental was un-manly. So if he liked you- especially if he liked you- he'd insist on saying the opposite, especially when he was drunk and probably feared actually saying something nice the most.

Jason was a macho blowhard, an arrogant bastard, and at his worst just a plain old fucking asshole. At the same time, he was a great guy, an amazing athlete, and an amazing friend. His advice and support, along with Tony's, had done a lot to help Chris succeed this year. Chris continued to look up to both of them. He had set out to make friends during his senior year, and by far the best two he'd made were Jason Morgan and Anthony Summers. Going to college with them was going to be so much fun.

As Jason, Chris, Tony and most of the other boys headed out to the parking lot and went off to their cars, some of them noticed that the Evans brothers were already there. They waved as they drove out of the lot in Mark's red Jeep, and then they were gone.

It was a little strange; normally, they stayed at the center of the crowd, a crowd that revolved around them. They were never in any hurry to leave, as sticking around meant soaking up every last minute of adoration and attention from their friends. This time they'd been some of the first guys out the door.

 **XX**

Thinking about a warm, comfortable bed- and the use it would be getting tomorrow evening, when he was going to bring Nicole over for a romantic dinner and a stay overnight- Chris started his Camaro and began the drive home. He made sure to stay upright in the bucket seat, eyes on the road. He was tired, and did not want to let that get him into an accident or run off the road.

Chris cranked each of the windows down when he first got to a red light and afterwards enjoyed the sweet sound of the V8's exhaust, coming out through twin tailpipes. This might have been an automatic, but it was fast, and that engine sounded amazing. Chris still didn't get why Nicole had always been so up for fucking in this car. It was cramped as shit in here. The blowjobs and road head worked just fine, though. Plenty of room for that.

It had occurred to Chris more than once that sex was probably the basis of his and Nicole's relationship. On just about every date- nearly every one they'd ever been on- Chris and Nicole wound up getting physical, usually in his car or one of their bedrooms. They didn't really talk that much about serious stuff. They mostly just had fun. Chris had enjoyed it all immensely, but he still wondered sometimes if he wasn't just a cock and some sexy muscles to her.

Tony would have had some funny comments to make about these musings, were he able to hear them. Jason would have slapped Chris on the back of his head and told him to just shut up, keep her happy, and enjoy the sex. To Jason that was the whole point of it all, and Anthony was if anything worse at getting serious in a relationship. He was the senior class playboy. He wasn't after commitment; he was just out to have fun. Tony could charm and romance like nobody else, but the goal at all times was getting laid. It wasn't like Chris had no understanding of Tony's or Jason's attitudes. They were his role models on this stuff. He had done as much as possible this year to cultivate an image just like theirs, had even sought detailed advice- embarrassing as it had been at first- on how to perform better, things to try and techniques to use. So while Chris secretly wished for a relationship with more than just great sex to it, he wasn't about to complain. He was eighteen years old, and had plenty of time left to look for a more serious relationship. Right now, it was all about having fun.

Any further thought on this was interrupted as an SUV approached from behind, quickly moved left to pass, and overtook Chris' Camaro. The redheaded teenager immediately recognized the vehicle; it was Mark's red Grand Cherokee. Not a lot of people owned one quite as new-looking as Mark's, and besides, he recognized the CHS sticker and the Maine license plate.

After getting in front of Chris, Mark's Jeep slowed down. It got close enough that Chris could actually see Henry in the back seat. Almost instantly the blond locked eyes with Chris, and he began making a "follow me" motion with one hand.

Chris squinted in confusion. "What the hell?" he muttered to himself, wondering what this was about.

Henry continued making the gesture for a few moments, then turned away, probably saying something to Mark up front.

 _Oh, man_ , Chris thought wearily, _these two want me to follow 'em somewhere_.

The redhead was not excited about doing that. He was tired, and did not particularly want to go anywhere but home. Chris thought about doing just that. Bed sounded really goddamned good after such a long and active day.

But this was Henry and Mark. The Evans brothers were inviting him to follow them somewhere. It was literally a summons from two kings.

Chris thought it was strange that they hadn't just called him; they both had his number. But he could ask them about that later. Right now, he had to choose whether to do what they clearly wanted- follow them to wherever it was they intended to go- or not. Chris knew he was free to refuse. He could go home right now. But if he did, Henry and Mark were not going to take it well, and then he'd have to face them at school on Monday. If either of them was in a bad mood, Chris' imagination was the only limit to what the consequences could be.

After coming so spectacularly far this year, after impressing so many people, enjoying himself so much, Chris did not want to even think of risking his status by pissing off Henry and Mark. No way was he gonna screw this up with only a few weeks left. And besides, the Evans brothers didn't do things without a damn good reason. Part of Chris really wanted to know what it was.

So when the two vehicles reached an intersection and the Grand Cherokee turned right, Chris followed. The drive lasted about ten minutes, taking them into the gentle, semi-forested hills that overlooked the rest of town, and ended when Mark's Jeep came to a stop in front of a towering set of black wrought-iron gates. A high brick wall, partly covered with ivy, stood with some impressive-looking trees on either side. And behind all that, through the gates, Chris could see an enormous house. A massive, intimidating, old-fashioned looking thing. Even in the dark it looked scary.

Actually, it looked scary _especially_ in the dark.

The gates opened, swinging inward, and Chris hit the gas a little as the Grand Cherokee headed inside. He drove in behind them towards a huge stone water fountain, coming to a stop after going about halfway around. The Jeep's lights went out and the front doors opened, and Henry and Mark got out. Sitting low to the ground in the Camaro's bucket seat, Chris was amazed in a whole new way at just how tall the brothers were. They towered over everyone else normally; here, they looked like virtual giants.

Chris shifted into park and shut off the Camaro. As he opened the long driver's door and got out, he looked up at the imposing mansion. It was old; the house and the overgrown, neglected grounds had a look about them that Chris knew couldn't have been used in houses for a long time. Nobody made them like this anymore.

The redheaded teenager shivered involuntarily; it was warm outside, but looking up at those house, glancing into a dozen-plus blackened windows, Chris suddenly felt strange and cold. He had two abrupt thoughts, neither of which he had any evidence for, but which instinct told him he believed. The first was that he didn't like this old, obviously deserted house.

The second was that it was watching him.

Now that he thought about it, Chris remembered driving by on this road a couple times, and even during the day the mansion had given him the creeps. Once he and Nicole had pulled off on the empty drive in front of this place to fuck, and Chris had needed to drive them somewhere else once he realized he couldn't get it up. As soon as they were away, he'd performed just fine. Chris had never really put it all together before, but all he could think of now was that he had never liked this place, and had stayed as far from it as he could. What were Henry and Mark doing leading him out here?

Knowing Henry and Mark despised weakness and showing fear, Chris resolved to cover his now. He put on a good-natured smile as he approached Henry and Mark, saying, "I told you I had to get my sleep, guys, so why're you leading me to the Haunted Mansion instead?"

The joke seemed to get somewhere; Henry and Mark both smiled, laughing a little. That was good; Chris didn't want these two to think he was scared.

"This won't take long," Henry assured him.

"Chris, I think it's a good time for us to say something."

"Sorry, I'm a ladies' man," Chris quipped.

It was a risk, saying that; these two were easy to piss off. But the six-foot-six brothers just laughed again.

"Funny," Mark said, grinning. "Henry, haven't I told you how much I admire the fuckin' balls this guy has?"

"Oh, yeah," Henry replied, nodding. "But then you're not saying anything I haven't said myself."

"You've come a long way this year," Mark said, looking at Chris. "A long fuckin' way."

"Look at 'im," Henry said, gesturing. "Those arms, shoulders- he's got a fucking six pack these days. Even how he stands."

"You were some random kid when you showed up," Mark said, "but you challenged us to a boxing match the day we met you at the Y. You've had the nerve to try shit a lot of kids never do."

"The only way you were gonna impress us and all our friends is by having balls, taking risks," Henry went on. "That's exactly what you did. Everything you did this year, as far as you've come, it was all because of your own hard work and determination."

"Look at who you are now," Mark said. "You're a hundred fuckin' times more impressive than you were when you met us. You used to be a skinny virgin with some balls. Now you're a badass jock. You did that all by yourself, because you wanted it and you were ready to fucking work for it."

"Point is, we respect you," Henry said. "You've impressed the fuck out of us. Every cool thing you've done, every improvement you made in yourself- we know about it, and we admire you because of it. That's why we finally decided we'd let you in on our secret."

Chris had stood in stunned awe throughout the little speech he'd just heard. Never had he expected to be praised to the sky like that by Henry and Mark Evans, the strongest, coolest, most fearless and amazing guys he'd ever met. They were living legends, rightly looked at as the best at everything, the guys every teenage boy wanted to be. Chris had felt honored from the day they'd let him into their circle. From the beginning, becoming one of their friends had been his goal, knowing it was key to the popularity he wanted at Chamberlain High.

Now, at the end of a successful year, Henry and Mark themselves had told Chris he'd succeeded at everything he'd set out to do and in the process won their admiration. Chris could hardly wait to start living the benefits that would come from this- even if it was the last few weeks before graduation. Maybe he'd get to ask for one of their rare and sought-after favors. Who knew? This was an honor and enough of one to make Chris temporarily forget this creepy house he was in front of.

But pleased as he was, Chris was also curious. He didn't know what the last part of what Henry had said was about.

"What do you mean? What secret?"

"The secret of our success!" Mark exclaimed, as if it should have been obvious. "Come on, Chris. You've seen our parents at games, right?"

"Yeah," Chris said, nodding.

"Do you really think two people that are about as average as you fucking get could produce a pair of Goliaths like us?" Henry asked, looking amused at the very idea. "Come on. We did it another way."

Chris laughed. "What, like, steroids or something?"

Henry and Mark laughed and shook their heads. "No, we used something much better than that," Mark said, "and something which can't be detected!"

"And it's in there," Henry said, pointing at the front doors of the mansion. "You ever wonder why we can bench seven hundred pounds? Why we're each six-six and got bigger dicks than anybody? The reason's inside."

The redhead then realized he was probably being set up for a prank. Big talk about some secret, they get him in the spooky old house, then say, "Hey, we actually just got this lucky!" and everybody has a big laugh. That's all it was. They were smart, tough, and had become passionate weightlifters early on in their adolescent lives. From there, they were just lucky. No big secret there. This was a setup for a big joke.

Or was it?

Chris knew they were probably bullshitting him, but Henry and Mark both seemed pretty serious. They were known for a lot of things- short tempers, huge egos, huge muscles, and unparalleled athletic and sexual prowess. But they weren't known for being liars. If they said something they very often meant it.

But more than that, Chris began to feel the idea that these two were serious about this taking hold. If there was some secret in this house, something that had allowed them to become the extraordinary guys they were, and they had become impressed enough with Chris to bring him in on it… Henry and Mark occupied an Olympian status that guys around them could only dream of reaching. If they were seriously about to bring him in on something big, Chris was being invited to ascend to those heights himself.

The brief fantasy that gave Chris of having a fucking huge cock and being able to bench seven hundred pounds, able to fuck for hours and be the envy of every other guy around, was enough to win him over. If there was even a chance they were serious, Chris had to see what they were talking about. What it could mean for him if they were was just impossible to say no to.

Chris started to think of a reply to say, but he didn't need to; Henry and Mark could see he was tempted and smiled knowingly.

"Come on, then," Mark said, and he and Henry turned and headed for the front doors of the mansion. Chris followed them, hoping fervently that he really was about to become like them. No way would this be worth it otherwise.

 **XX**

The bad feeling Chris had when he first got out of his car only intensified when he walked in. He didn't have any specific reason for it, but it was unmistakably there, all the same. It was just an old house with a cavernous entrance hall, with floor space you could park a couple cars in and a ceiling that looked higher than Chris' own house. Doorways leading to other rooms, or leading into no-doubt-lengthy hallways were visible left, right, and directly ahead, both past the huge, elegant-looking staircase on this floor and at the point it stopped on the second floor.

Chris did not like this house. Something was wrong here. Houses were supposed to be just things of brick and wood and cement. This place didn't feel like that. It looked like a grand old mansion, past its glory days, but appearances were definitely deceiving here, it seemed like. The sense that Chris had outside- that the house was watching him- only grew as he came to a stop in the center of the entrance hall.

 _God, this place gives me the creeps_ , Chris thought uneasily, fingering the silver cross pendant on his neck. That cross had brought him a lot of luck and had accompanied him through some fond memories. Chris had exploited it to seem deep and sincere, to add to his growing playboy image an air of civility and earnest caring. He'd worn it while having sex more times than he could count; Nicole liked it when he wore it, saying it made him look sensitive and romantic. The girls Chris had screwed over Spring Break had liked the cross too. Chris only hoped it would help him out against whatever Haunted House willies he was getting now.

But Chris was startled by something else he noticed as he looked around. On the outside, the house had the appearance of a decaying, neglected mansion. Once-magnificent gardens lay overgrown with untended bushes and weeds. No one had been taking care of anything on the outside of the mansion in years- decades, probably. But in here- Chris couldn't believe it. He took another look around and realized the place did not look half as neglected as it should have inside. The interior, from what the redhead could see here, was incredibly clean. It looked like a full-time staff of maids worked here.

Even in the dim lighting from a skylight, casting the moon's pale glow over everything, Chris could see no leaks had sprung in the roof to ruin the floor over the years. Everything was intact; there were no cobwebs anywhere, no dust. Henry went off to the side somewhere and moments later, the enormous, elaborate chandelier hanging over the hall and the lamps lining the walls came on.

Chris whirled around, unable to believe it. This place was clearly a deserted and very old mansion. No way should the lights have come on like that. And the lamps were gas- who had used that as standard in a house this expensive since the early 1900's? How was it possible gas would have been available to power these lamps on, illuminating a clean, well-cared-for entrance hall, after who knew how many years of no use?

"How'd you do that?" Chris asked, looking up at Henry as the blond giant approached.

"You mean, how'd I turn the lights on?" Henry asked in response, looking down at him with amusement. Mark laughed.

"They- they shouldn't be able to turn on," Chris insisted. "This place is abandoned. Nobody lives here, right? How can the lights be on?"

"We wanted them on, so they are," Henry said simply, like that explained everything.

Chris stared around again, catching for the first time the full magnificence of the hall he was in. Ornate, elegantly-carved hardwood paneled the walls, and where it didn't, there was expensive-looking, classy wallpaper. Paintings that looked as costly as they had to have been- very old paintings- hung on the walls, tastefully placed and organized. An aging but striking woman was featured in one painting that hung in the entrance hall, the biggest of any of them. She had iron-grey hair and was clearly past her youth, but the years looked only to have toughened her.

This house was a throwback to a different time. This century was nearly over, but when this place was built, it must have been just beginning. Whoever had lived here had known wealth beyond conception, had wielded power and influence in equally great measures. Now they were long gone. And yet here this house stood, looking remarkably well on the outside despite the neglect, and almost untouched on the inside.

His imagination took off running, going from imagining what this place must have been like decades ago to what it was used for now. Maybe in this enormous, elegant house, far from intruding eyes, Henry and Mark had been making some drug for years that made them as superhuman as they clearly were. Incredible physical benefits, no side effects (unless you counted a titanic ego), and no way of detecting it… and they'd brewed it here. And no one had ever known. It made sense; who would ever come here besides Henry and Mark?

And although Chris hadn't shared that class with Mark, he'd heard more than once what a whiz the auburn-haired titan was at chemistry. That head-turning blonde teacher, Miss Michaels… she'd been his teacher. Chris had lost himself in fantasies about her enough times, he couldn't understand how Mark was able to concentrate in that class at all. But he'd been able to and then some. Science offered some incredible things to the people smart enough to make sense of it. A brilliant chemist might be able to find some previously-unknown things out about certain chemical combinations and the effects they could have on the human body. Was it really possible that Mark had come across- maybe even stumbled upon- something that gave him such astonishing height, such incredible muscle mass, and lightning-fast reflexes?

Was it possible that this really was no prank and that these two living legends were about to share that with Chris?

The very idea of that gave Chris such a thrill that he found himself suppressing his own fear, putting aside the creepy feeling the house still gave him. And when the brothers started heading up the staircase, Chris willingly followed them further into the house.

 **XX**

"So how big is this place?" Chris asked as they walked.

"Huge," Mark answered him. "You have no idea, man. It's got forty or fifty rooms, at least. Maybe more on some days."

"Some days?" Chris wondered, confused. He was following Henry and Mark down a hall that seemed to go on forever in either direction; even with the lights on Chris wasn't sure he could see the end. Doors- perhaps to rooms, maybe to kitchens or even a frigging Jacuzzi for all Chris knew- lined both sides of the hall. Paintings and lamps hung along the hall, strategically placed like everything else seemed to have been. An ornate, thick-carpeted rug appeared to run as long as the hall did.

"Yeah," Henry said, and he didn't elaborate.

"What's in this room?" Chris asked, pointing at yet another closed door.

"One of the bedrooms," Mark answered.

"So do you guys, like- uh, do you make drugs here or something?"

Henry and Mark both laughed. "You still think we're on some kinda steroids?"

Chris shrugged. "I don't know. You haven't told me what it is you are on."

"Save your questions for when we get where we're going," Henry said. "Just wait. What you'll see is gonna be amazing. It'll explain everything."

The redhead walked a minute or two behind Henry and Mark in silence, and then asked, "So, you ever fucked any girls here?" This place had to have some awesome bedrooms. Really good for impressing a date.

"No," Henry replied. "We don't need to use this place for that. What we do here is a lot more important."

"More important than _sex_?" Chris asked, unable to believe it.

"Well, you probably know our cocks are fuckin' huge, right?" Mark asked.

Chris blushed as red as his hair, but nodded when Mark and Henry glanced at him. He'd heard. "Yeah," he said.

"We're bigger, better, and can last longer than anybody else. Every girl either of us has ever been with has raved about us. What we're gonna show you gave us all that."

"We still would've been awesome anyway," Henry went on, "but this helped us a lot. Made it way easier to get laid, I can tell you."

"So what is it?" Chris asked. He really wanted to know.

"We'll tell you everything once we get there," Mark said. "All will be answered then."

"Including where babies come from?" Chris asked, unable to help himself.

Henry and Mark laughed again. "I think you figured that out this year," Henry said with a smile. "Took you a while but you figured it out."

Chris tried to get a few more questions in, but Henry and Mark just brushed them off, repeating that they'd tell him soon. So the redhead settled into walking along behind Henry and Mark, thinking about this house and wondering what the hell about it had given Henry and Mark all this amazing shit. He had no idea what it was. Each guess seemed as unlikely as another. But Chris knew he'd be finding out soon.

 **XX**

After climbing up some stairs for several flights, Henry and Mark led Chris down yet another hallway. They stopped just after turning a corner, and Mark opened a door. Chris didn't see him flip any switch, but the lights came on, and suddenly an enormous, circular room topped by an enormous dome came into view. A chandelier blazed with light, hanging over the center of the room, and at first Chris was terrified to set foot into it. It looked like the door opened onto a sheer drop, with an identical dome below.

It took a few moments for him to realize it was a mirror. The entire goddamn floor was a mirror. Glass lined the walls, the ceiling. Bookcases, dozens, circled the entire room, and they were made of crystal-clear glass, thick and sturdy.

"What is this, the-the frickin mirror library?" Chris asked, amazed at what he was seeing. This looked big enough to fit his whole house in.

"The Glass Library," Henry corrected him. "Come on in."

Henry and Mark led Chris out into the room; the footsteps of the three boys echoed around the silent, glass-filled room. When they reached the center of the room, directly under the chandelier, Henry and Mark halted and turned to face Chris.

"This is it, Chris," Mark said.

Chris looked around, not understanding. This was a huge goddamn room, sure. He'd never seen anything like it. But what was special about it? It was a fancy library.

"This is the heart of the house," Henry explained. "This is where its power is strongest, and where it's distributed some of that power to us over the years."

What a letdown. Chris had been really expecting something and gotten nothing at all. He shrugged, feeling overwhelmed by disappointment. This nothing but a bad joke. "So that's it?" Chris asked. "You're the best athletes in Maine because of a haunted house?"

Chris knew it was dangerous to speak disrespectfully to Henry and Mark, but he could not disguise his sarcasm, his disappointment. What a waste of time this had been. He'd let himself get all excited, get his imagination going, only to be let down after all.

Henry and Mark grinned at Chris again, but the grins were no longer friendly. They were downright predatory.

"No, Chris," Henry said calmly, "not just because of the house. We feed it, and it rewards us."

"Oh, yeah?" Chris asked scornfully. "Like what? Bricks and two-by-fours? Maybe some plaster?"

Chris was prepared to go on with that, but he stopped abruptly when he heard what Henry said next.

"People, Chris. People we've murdered here over the years."

"W-what?" Chris asked, startled. Now moving from let-down to uneasy, Chris held up his hands, smiling nervously. "Okay, uh, you got me guys. But this isn't funny."

"Who's joking?" Henry asked rhetorically. "You don't get something for nothing in this world, Chris. You want to receive, you need to give first. You need to plant before you can sow."

Henry paused, and the house was dead silent. There was no central air running. Chris could almost hear his own heart pounding in his chest, and all of a sudden Chris was very sorry he had let himself get talked into walking into this mansion. He began to realize he had very probably made a serious mistake.

"Henry," Mark asked calmly, "how many people have we planted here?"

"Forty-four," Henry answered. "Not one of 'em were ever reported as a murder, though, 'cause nobody knows they're dead."

Chris suddenly felt very cold.

"You can make it one more," Mark said, looking earnestly at Chris. "And nobody'll ever know you were murdered, either. Don't worry. We'll take care of everything."

This had all gone horribly wrong. Chris was getting seriously freaked out now. He'd had enough and then some. He took a couple involuntary steps backward, staring wide-eyed at Henry and Mark. He didn't know what he'd done to deserve such a mind-fucking, terrifying prank, but he didn't like it one bit.

"I-I really gotta go home now," Chris blurted, and he turned to leave.

Two people stood in front of him. One was close to Chris' height, about five-nine or five-ten, with short, dark hair. Beside him was a young woman with long light-brown hair and green eyes.

At a glance they were ordinary people, but Chris abruptly realized he could stare right through them towards the door. They were both bruised, bloody, and appeared to be in pain. A great deal of pain. They didn't say anything and they didn't move. They just stared at Chris, with the most agonized, haunted look he'd ever seen in anyone's eyes in his life.

Making himself tear his eyes away from that horrific sight, Chris whirled back to Henry and Mark. "How'd you do that?" he burst out, breathing hard. He had nearly pissed himself over that, and he was now quite scared, but laughter greeted his question, cruel and taunting.

"We didn't do anything," Henry answered. "We didn't need to."

"The house captures the souls of everyone who dies here," Mark said. "It feeds off them. And Chris, when you die here, you won't get to go anywhere. You'll stay here, and maybe you'll appear to the next person we kill here. What you just saw? That's gonna be you… forever."

"It isn't like anyone's gonna miss you," Henry assured him. "You're nothing to anybody. Name a person and I could prove they don't give a shit about you. We'll be doing the world a favor when we kill you."

Chris just stood there and stared at them. His mind couldn't comprehend what his ears were hearing.

"Run for it, Chris," Mark said, his tone cold and dismissive. "At least make it a challenge for us."

He had been told what was happening. Chris knew he had to run. He knew now that there was a dark, dark interior to the lives of these two teenagers, that their phenomenal success had a horrible secret behind it. They really had been aided all these years by a living, breathing, soul-eating house, and now they meant to feed Chris to it. His mind believed it, yet his feet would not. Chris just stood there, unable to make himself take this seriously enough to actually run for it.

This couldn't be happening. It just couldn't be real. This didn't happen in real life.

Chris stood there frozen, eyes flicking between Henry and Mark, until Henry unleashed a lighting jab to his nose, full force. The pain nearly whited out Chris' vision, and his head snapped back as he crashed to the floor. His nose was almost broken by the impact, and blood began to flow freely.

"Run, Chris." Henry stared down at him, his smile long gone, those crisp blue eyes hard and pitiless. "Run or we'll kill you right here."

That did it. Chris believed it now. He believed it all. The redheaded teenager bolted to his feet and spun around to run for the door, doing it so fast he tripped and fell on his own feet. He jumped up again and sprinted for the door, not even looking back. His terrified mind somehow still noted something as he ran: the blood dripping from his nose was not spattering on the floor and resting there, like it should have.

Every time a drop hit, it disappeared instantly. Same as if this was a carpet. The glass was absorbing the blood, sucking it in somehow the second it hit.

 **XX**

Chris had closed the door to this room behind him when he'd come in here. Now he wrenched it open and tore off down the hall he'd come down, running like he'd never run before. Chris didn't know if Henry or Mark were behind him. He didn't know if they'd come after him yet. He didn't dare look to see.

He knew that if he did- if he stopped or slowed down even a second now- he was going to die here. None of his friends would know what had happened to him. Henry and Mark would lie, and say they didn't know, that they were as mystified about their friend's disappearance as anyone else.

The redhead remembered a conversation from back when school started up after Spring Break. Scott Shepherd had warned him against making friends with these two at the start of the year, and after Spring Break, he'd said "I think you already have," when Chris had mockingly asked if Scott was trying to save him from dooming himself. "You don't know who your friends are," Scott had said. Those were the last words he'd ever said to Chris.

Why hadn't he listened? Why hadn't he even considered it?

It was all there, suddenly. Chris remembered every time Henry or Mark had kicked or pushed a kid. Every time they'd laughed at another student, picked on them and made them feel small. He'd stood there and laughed while they mocked that poor kid, and then Henry had crushed the boy's phone in front of him. Chris had let all his friends imitate that behavior, and even done a little himself under pressure from Andrew and Jason and some of the others.

The cruelty. The absolute absence of pity or remorse. The eagerness to punish anyone who crossed them. John LaFleur had been beaten savagely for coming to a football game high. A boy who'd dodged them in the hopes of not being bullied for a week had been cruelly punished when he was finally caught.

Chris realized that even Scott Shepherd had not been close to being right about Henry and Mark, but the soccer captain at least had _some_ idea. At least he knew they were cruel and monstrous, and that Chris would have been better off staying away from them.

The redhead wished he'd listened. He wished with all his might that he'd just listened to the other boy. Had he only done that, he would have never been in this position in the first place. He never would've even allowed himself to be suckered into coming here.

Running straight down the hall to the door to those stairs should have been easy. Instead, Chris jerked open the door at the right place and found a wall. A solid wall. He backed away, not understanding. He was alone in the hallway. Abruptly, Chris realized the light from the open door of the mirror library place was gone. Even at the other end of a long hallway it should have still been visible. Chris looked to his right and saw nothing. There was a solid wall the way he had come.

What the hell was going on here?

Chris spun around, desperately searching for a way out of here. He saw a door he hadn't tried and jerked it open; he ran into the room, lit only by the light from the moon coming in the windows. Once he got inside, Chris looked around and staggered as he realized he was looking at the ceiling of a room where the floor should have been, and that an entire office- a very old-looking office- was bolted to the tiled floor above him.

Had the house suddenly turned upside down, too?

The redhead was briefly transfixed by the bizarre sight of it. Lights even "hung" from the upside-down ceiling Chris stood on, looking exactly as they should have were gravity pulling them down.

What? Who the fuck had designed a room like this? Was the architect- or the rich person paying the architect- out of their fucking mind?

Chris spun around, suddenly aware he was not alone in the room.

Henry was right there behind him.

The moment Chris turned around, the huge blond punched him in the face. Chris stumbled back, tasting blood. He raised his fists to defend himself, but Henry just lashed out and nearly broke his nose a second time. Chris cried out, unable to bear the pain. The blood running from his nose had just begun to slow down, but it was doing the opposite now.

"We said run," Henry said, socking Chris in the stomach. Air rushed out of the red-haired teen, and he hunched over, straining to breathe. Henry chopped him to the floor with another blow. "We said make it a challenge. You're such a fucking loser you can't even run like a bitch. No fucking wonder you didn't get laid until senior year."

Henry moved around, took careful aim. Chris didn't think to cover himself until it was too late. Henry's shoe shot forward and blinding, roiling pain shot through Chris as Henry kicked him in the balls. It was horrible. Agony in his nose, his mouth, his stomach, his privates- Chris could barely think. He could barely move. But he managed to suck in a breath and hoarsely say, "Fuck. You."

"Fuck me? _Fuck me_?" Henry said, his voice rising as his face clouded with anger. "What, you think you're some brave motherfucker, saying that to me? You ain't shit, Chris." He reached down and wrapped a steel hand around the teen's neck, lifting him up in the air.

"I own you, Chris," Henry shouted. "You lived this long because Mark and I _let_ you. Your stupid little life is ours to take."

Chris gagged and gasped, trying in vain to pull the hand away from his throat. He kicked and flailed but it did no good. God, this hurt.

Henry suddenly reached in with his other hand, pulling Chris' t-shirt out a little to look at his pendant. He laughed coldly. "You still wearing that stupid cross, Chris? What, you think God's gonna save you? There _is_ no God, Chris, and He won't be claiming that pitiful little soul of yours either."

The blond grabbed for the pendant, probably meaning to rip it off, but then something very strange happened. Henry's hand gripped the silver cross for only a second or so. Then he yelled in surprise and anger, and not only let go of the pendant but let go of Chris, dropping the battered teenager to the floor.

Collapsing in a heap, Chris gasped and strained for breath. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Henry gripping his left hand, staring at it in disbelief. He seemed to be in pain, enough, even, that he'd forgotten about Chris for the moment. The redhead was hurting so bad he could barely stand, yet he found the strength to not only do it, but to stagger forward into a run, grab the door at the other end of the room, and continue to try to get away.

As he ran, the silver necklace and pendant stayed safe around his neck. The cross that he'd known such good fortune with, a gift from the playboy mentor he admired so much, Anthony Summers, had done- something. Chris didn't really understand it. Henry had reached like the little piece of metal had been physically painful for him to touch. Chris reached into his shirt as he ran and touched it; it was warm, heated by Chris' chest, but nothing else.

Chris thought for a moment that maybe Henry was wrong, and that wearing that cross had somehow forced Henry to let him go, at least this one time. Chris was no more of a proper Christian than Anthony was. He'd attended Mass a number of times this year alongside the Italian-American charmer. But if he got out of this, if he lived, Chris resolved to give some serious thought to going to church more often. No, no, scratch that. If he made it out Chris would pray to fucking God every fucking day. Anything at all, anything. If being a good Catholic boy helped his soul go to heaven, wonderful. Right now, Chris didn't care where it went as long as it didn't stay here.

 **XX**

The escape from Henry did not buy Chris the chance to make the quick escape he had hoped for. Denied the chance to immediately retrace his steps, Chris had been forced from the start to take another route. Running through halls, stumbling into rooms, Chris pushed himself harder and harder to run and never stop. He had to get away. He had to live. He wanted to see Mom and Dad again, he wanted to fuck Nicole one more time, and tell her how special she was to him for being so understanding of the little kid he'd been at the start of this year. He wanted to tell Jason and Tony the awful truth about their two leaders and friends.

He did not want to die here.

Chris never let himself stop, never let himself take a break. The need to run, to get out of here and stay alive, overpowered everything else. As Chris ran he saw some things he'd never imagined he would, things he never even thought were real.

He flung open one door and saw a decayed corpse, a guy dressed in outdoorsy-type gear, staring at him, and screamed in terror as his bladder let go. The urine staining his underwear and shorts would have humiliated him any other time, but here, Chris barely even noticed. He just turned from the dead man looking at him and ran for it. He ran from what he knew he'd become if he stayed.

More than once, Chris staggered or faltered as he ran. He was tired, and his body, tough and strong as it was, had taken a lot of abuse. He was struggling to stay on his feet, but somehow managed to. Somehow. As badly as his body cried out for mercy, his mind kept it going, reminding him that if he stopped and gave up now, he would die here.

The layout of the house was like a maze. It seemed to have an unlimited number of halls, corridors, and rooms of every type. The suffocating fear he felt was gripping him, making him feel feverish and panicked. Chris could no longer even try to shake the feeling that the house was somehow watching him, that it hated him, and that it did not want him to get out. Was he even making progress- or was he just heading deeper into this nightmarish place?

Tearing through another set of rooms, Chris saw a pair of battered-looking young women, both wearing t-shirts and running shorts, standing in one doorway. His heart jumped into his throat but Chris did not stop, not even as he saw their heads turn, felt them looking at him. Watching him.

Chris did not want to be like them. He didn't want to become number forty-five.

He was now absolutely convinced all those deaths Henry and Mark claimed had really happened. They had lured people here, taken them here, and then killed them, their bodies disappeared forever into the house, their souls trapped and unable to leave.

Forty-four people.

Chris had never met any of them. He did not know who they were, or how precisely they died. But they must have done exactly what he was doing, trying to escape.

Not a single one of them had made it.

Eventually, Chris stopped in a deserted hallway, yet another that seemed to go on forever. This one was moonlit- the house had gone dark a long time ago now- by several tall windows lining it on one side. Chris came to a stop, breathing hard. He must have looked like death. Sweat darkened his red t-shirt and made every inch of his skin slick. Blood was still caked on his face, and the stink of urine wafted up from Chris' groin.

It didn't matter. He was lucky to even be alive. If he made it out of here he could clean himself up all he wanted. It wouldn't matter if he looked like hell, so long as he escaped. Chris had never felt so intensely alive; knowing he might not be alive much longer was doing wonders for his awareness of… everything. Chris could see, hear, smell and think more vividly than he ever did before. His body was in full survival mode. Everything was focused on staying alive. Ideas and possibilities, tactics and methods to try, raced through his mind. He'd been running like hell for a while now, but that, all by itself, was probably not going to be enough. He needed to try something different, just like he'd had to months ago, in order to get Henry and Mark's attention in the first place.

Chris briefly thought of trying to fight, but that was out almost as soon as he thought of it. He was exhausted and scared, and could bench two-fifty on a good day. Henry and Mark would be energized and strong, and could bench seven hundred any old time they pleased. He couldn't take them, especially not in this house from Hell.

The redheaded eighteen-year-old dug into his pocket, suddenly hoping he could get out his phone and call for help. His phone was gone. Chris knew he hadn't left it in his car. It must have fallen out of his pocket at some point- maybe when Henry had punched Chris and knocked him down. It was probably vanished now, swallowed up by the house.

Would it have done any good anyway? Would the phone have even worked in here? Chris' watch sure didn't. It had been dead this whole time, despite the battery having been completely fine earlier today. The device had just quit working, taking away any sense Chris had of how long he'd been in here. Had it been half an hour, one hour? Two? He had no idea.

The house probably didn't want him to have any sense of that.

It didn't want him to have anything at all. Chris had never really thought all that much about whether he believed in souls, God, and all that stuff. He'd just used the cross he wore to impress girls. Now he'd seen ghosts. He was witnessing the supernatural, experiencing it every second he was in this house. Henry and Mark had told him his soul would be trapped here if he died in the house.

It seemed like they knew what they were talking about.

Chris heard a sound from off to his right; he jerked as if struck by a pin, spinning around to face it. There was nothing. Nobody was there. Just a darkened hallway, lit only by the pale light of the moon. But all the same, the sense remained that he was being watched. Chris couldn't see anyone, but in this place, that didn't mean he was alone.

Then Chris got another idea, and he frantically dug in his back pocket for his lighter. His hand closed around it, and Chris closed his eyes in relief. Finally, a break. The rush of relief seemed to push things back, make the corners sharp once more. It was a crazy drunk's thought, but Chris had started to get a sense of the corners of the house, of every room, "melting" somehow. Closing in, shifting, changing. As Chris found the lighter, the world before him snapped back into focus.

He didn't have any time to waste. Chris flicked the wheel until it lit, then crouched and put the flame to the base of the window curtains near him. The small flame spread onto the drapes and began to grow, and Chris quickly held the lighter to the curtains at the next window. They caught too, and as the flames slowly and steadily began to grow, Chris heard a low, eerie moaning run through the house, as if the wood, stone and brick was itself knowing pain.

Chris sincerely hoped the fucking place burned to the ground. And if it could feel pain, even better. Chris wanted the goddamned house to _suffer_. If this dump was him, it was gonna have to fucking earn it.

Encouraged, Chris looked around for something else to burn, something to get the fire going. He spotted an end table standing off to the right. It was an elegantly-carved, lacquered piece, clearly old. Chris pocketed his lighter, snatched the end table up by the legs. He raised it high and brought it down as hard as he could, and he could have cheered when part of the top broke off. The redheaded boy jumped up and down on it, snapping the legs off, and shoved it all in a pile against the curtains beneath the first window, making sure the burning fabric had a chance to make contact with the wood. It did after a few moments, and the fire began to catch and spread onto this new source of fuel.

Suddenly Chris noticed motion at the edge of his vision, and he sprang up and got ready to run as Mark Evans charged in. But he didn't come for Chris. Looking almost panicked, he pulled off his shirt, exposing that powerful, chiseled-from-stone physique Chris had always been so jealous of, and started frantically beating at the flames.

"Henry!" Mark screamed. "Henry, get over here!"

Chris noticed something just then. For once, there was none of that smug, arrogant self-confidence that the Evans brothers seemed to exude. That supreme air of superiority, of "I'm just better than you," was gone. In its place was genuine fear and desperation. As much danger as he was in, Chris felt immense pleasure as he saw that Mark was clearly afraid; it was good to see that colossal asshole finding out what fear was like for himself.

Knowing he was on borrowed time and literally playing with fire, Chris ran down the hall to another end table, this one featuring a kerosene lamp, one of the old ones Grandma still owned. Just like how the lamps and chandeliers on the walls and ceilings worked, this lamp still had plenty of fuel in it, and Chris could feel and hear it swishing around as he snatched the porcelain and glass object up and shook it.

Mark looked up at him then, and immediately guessed what Chris was about to do.

"Noooo!" Mark screamed, "Don't!"

Chris threw down the lamp, aiming right at the rug running the length of the hallway. The lamp shattered, spilling fuel and soaking it into the rug. Chris hurriedly got out his lighter, flicked it on, and held the flame to the wet section of carpet. As he did so, Chris flipped Mark the bird with his free hand.

Mark roared with fury, picking up a heavy statuette, a small ebony head, from where it had fallen when Chris had smashed the end table. In his hurry, Chris had tipped the statuette and dumped it off the table without even noticing, without even seeing it in the first place. Mark grabbed it and hurled it with bullet-like force, and Chris felt a flash of searing pain as the statuette hit the center of his right arm.

The impact knocked him down, and Chris thought he felt or heard something snap. His first thought was that his arm was broken. Strange, though- he couldn't seem to feel any pain. Wasn't it supposed to hurt? Maybe. It sure didn't seem to. That sure was odd.

His lighter had flown from his hand as Chris had been thrown down by the force of the impact. It landed, still aflame, across the hall a few feet away. The rug, burning steadily where the kerosene had soaked it, was now beginning to burn at Chris' feet.

The lighter. He had to get it! He'd succeeded here; what if he got away again and started some more fires, ran from room to room, making it impossible for them to catch up to him and put out the fires? He'd make them choose between one and the other. Chris forced himself up, choking back a cry of pain at the agony that lanced up his arm as he tried to use it to help him get to his feet.

Chris turned away from Mark and had just started for the lighter when Henry barreled into him from the opposite direction, looking downright feral. The collision made Chris' vision go almost white with pain, and when Henry grabbed him, he was sure he was dead.

Just then, Mark shouted, "Henry, help me! He's setting Fleetwood Hall on FIRE!"

Swearing violently, Henry threw Chris aside, causing white hot agony as his right arm was roughly jostled again. The towering blond, appearing a literal titan from where Chris lay on the floor, rushed over towards Mark and began stomping furiously at the flames eating up the rug.

It would not be long before they turned their attention to him. Chris had no intention of sticking around for that. He struggled to his feet and got the hell out of there.

 **XX**

For several more minutes Chris ran through the house, finally finding some stairs and enough doors that actually opened. There was no way the fire had occupied Henry and Mark this long; they were after him now, and he had to hurry. There was no time to waste. Chris did what he could, though, knocking things over as he ran, sometimes hearing gratifying shattering sounds as something broke on the floor. It was hard, trying to do that, and run like hell, while his broken right arm dangled uselessly at his side. Every so often, it would smack against something, sending a flash of agony up Chris' arm. He wished he could have continued working to torch the place. This house deserved that. But if he could get away, he could come back with a whole group of his friends after Henry and Mark were in jail. Then, not even going inside the house, they could burn it the fuck down.

But he had to get away first.

Eventually, Chris was racing down one hall, thankful that he'd gotten this far, when suddenly the wall on his right ended, and he saw it- the entrance hall! Chris could see the front door!

Chris turned and practically flew down the enormous number of steps, nearly tripping several times in the process. He was exhausted already, but the moment he reached the floor Chris went even faster. He damn near killed himself in his headlong sprint to the door. He grabbed for the handle-

Locked.

"NO!" Chris shouted aloud, desperate and terrified, his visions of escape suddenly threatening to turn to ash. He couldn't be stopped, not when he was so close!

Chris looked down at the door. It was an elaborate, heavy, multi-paneled work, and Chris abruptly got an idea about that. It was probably the last chance he had of getting out of here alive. He sat down in front of the door, aimed, and began kicking with all his strength at the lower left panel. As he worked, Chris thanked himself, blessing all the workouts he'd done with Anthony and Jason, workouts which had always included leg-strengthening exercises. It was all paying off now. Chris worked quickly, kicking as hard as he could, aware all the while that time was running out. He kicked and kicked, and finally the panel broke loose. It didn't offer a lot of space, but it was enough. The sweaty, exhausted, terrified adolescent threw himself forward, ignoring the pain, and wriggled out through the hole he'd made.

When he collapsed to his feet outside, Chris looked up, and the first thing he saw was his car. His 1985 Chevrolet Camaro, waiting for him all this time.

It was the most beautiful thing Chris Marshal had ever seen in his life.

Struggling to his feet yet again, Chris ran towards it, stumbling as he crossed around behind it. He had to use his left hand to get his keys out of his right pocket; his right arm, abused so many times after Mark had thrown that heavy statuette at it, did not seem to be working right anymore.

Chris unlocked his car, flung the door open, and collapsed into the driver's bucket seat. After not even a second, he slammed the door shut behind him, reaching around the wheel to ram the keys home in the ignition. Valuable seconds were lost as he struggled with the awkwardness of inserting the keys at an odd angle and with his left hand, but he did it.

By now Chris' thoughts were racing furiously, focused on what he was going to do next. He knew exactly what he planned to do. He would go to the police department, not stopping for anything. He'd go as fast as this fucking car could, which Chris was pretty damn sure was higher than the top listed speed of 85 miles per hour. The speed limit could go fuck itself. And if some cop caught him and tried to pull him over for speeding, all the better, because Chris was going straight to the police anyway, as fast as he possibly could.

 **XX**

Mark ripped a long, deadly-looking piece of wood from the damaged door and turned the handle. Fleetwood Hall was his home, and so the door that refused to let Chris Marshal out opened easily for Mark. The little shit Mark was after had made it to his car; Mark could see the kid struggling to shift the automatic transmission from the center console. His broken arm, the result of work Mark had done, was making it difficult. Mark, hellbent on making life a great deal more difficult for Chris than it already was, didn't watch where he was going and tripped as he came down the brick front steps of the mansion. He stumbled, fell, caught himself by planting his hands on the cool bricks.

Ahead of him, the Camaro's engine roared as Chris stomped on the gas pedal. It was either in neutral or still in park, because the car went nowhere. Mark, using every ounce of strength he had, forced himself back on his feet and sprinted toward the Camaro. He held the makeshift shiv in front of him, and using it and his fist together, he slammed right into the Camaro's passenger window and destroyed it. The window exploded inward, showering the interior with bits of broken glass.

Chris's head turned, but only momentarily, and he had a grim expression of incredible focus as he threw his head forward, honking the Camaro's horn and avoiding Mark's wooden dagger. The Camaro's engine roared again, and this time, the Camaro sped backwards. Mark realized what was happening fast enough that he let his knees go out and hung on. He fought to get inside, to reach in and stab the stupid kid behind the wheel to death and finish the job, as the Camaro sped out from behind the Beast. The car braked to a stop suddenly, and Mark immediately heaved himself up, gripping the door with one hand and aiming the makeshift shiv at Chris with the other.

The redhead had to stop and shift the car to drive with his left hand, and Mark would have laughed at the other boy's weakness, the fact that he was crippled by his broken right arm, if he hadn't been angrier than he'd ever been in his life. Chris moved faster than Mark would have believed, though, and immediately stomped on the gas pedal again, launching the Camaro forward. The car picked up speed as its engine began to scream, and it was obvious Chris intended to ram the wrought iron gates.

Mark was dead-set on killing Chris first, but he couldn't. It was a struggle to even hang on. Chris didn't even look at Mark, just kept staring at the gate. Bloody and bruised as he was, he was fighting for survival with everything he had. Mark's every instinct screamed for him to kill the kid, to cut his throat open and make sure no one ever learned his fate.

Instead, Mark's knees began to bleed from dragging on the ground and he finally slipped and fell to the dirt, getting a face-full of dust in the Camaro's wake. There was a tremendous crash as the Camaro slammed headlong into the front gates, and Mark hoped feverishly that the car would fail to break through. The gates would be too strong. The car would be going too slow, or it would be destroyed by the impact and become immobile, or it would get stuck halfway through.

What happened was different from any of those things. The Camaro punched through the gates with a screech of metal as it pulled and strained them, then flung them apart. The gates tore into the front of the car and ripped off the mirrors on either door, leaving a mix of broken glass, plastic, chips of paint and the two mirrors sitting at the bent, misshapen gates.

Mark staggered to his feet, forcing himself to attempt a run after the car, but as he got to the damaged gates even he saw it was useless. Mark watched in horror and disbelief as the taillights of Chris Marshal's car, two wide strips of red, grew quickly smaller as the car sped into the night. Then, as Chris rounded a corner and began to go further downhill into Portland, they disappeared entirely.

"Mark! MARK!" Henry shouted, running out towards him. Mark turned, but before he could say anything, Henry saw the debris, the damage to the gates, and his brother's startlingly battered appearance. "Come on!" Henry yelled, turning and running for the Hummer.

The two teen titans bolted for the enormous truck, flung its front doors open, and jumped inside. Henry jammed the keys in the ignition and the huge turbodiesel engine kicked over immediately. Henry shifted into drive and hit the gas, and the truck shot forward. But even as he began racing out the gate, the blond let off the gas and said, "Wait a minute."

"What? Did you fucking say "Wait"?" Mark shouted. "He's getting away, Henry, GO!"

"Mark, he's gone. He got too much of a head start on us."

"He's gonna go to the police station! Just fucking go there and we'll kill him!"

"In front of the cops, Mark?"

"We'll just kill 'em, too! Fuck it, I hate 'em anyway!"

"Mark, we can't do that. We have a reputation."

Mark wanted to keep shouting, to argue. But he stared out of the twin rectangular panels of the Hummer's windshield and saw nothing but the road ahead, no Camaro and no Chris Marshal, he knew it was hopeless. They had fucked up and Chris, the first one ever, had gotten away. Mark drew in a breath and sighed. "Okay. What do we do now?"

Henry drove slower now, thinking. "We go home. Act like nothing happened. You and I put everything we're wearing in the laundry. And we just play it straight from there. He's not gonna have any proof of this, and if he tries telling anybody about the house and what it is, even better, 'cause everybody will think he's crazy then."

Mark took out his lighter, opened it and closed it. "This is bad. I should have killed him."

"Yeah," Henry said. "But look, don't worry. We can handle this. We'll be fine."

* * *

 **A/N: 3-4-2018**

 **And so begins my alternate ending to "The Good Sons". This single divergence, in which Chris Marshal gets away, is going to change everything for Henry and Mark, and many of the people around them. They've been lucky for a long time, but that may well start to change with Chris' escape.**

 **AM83220 helped inspire me to write this, as he helped inspire me to write all of the works in the universe of "The Good Son" following "The Second Face". He is a good friend and by far one of the best and most talented writers on this site. If you like my work, make sure to take a look at his. You won't be disappointed.**

 **There will be at least one more chapter for this story, maybe two. It depends on how long it takes to detail subsequent events. Can't say for sure when the next chapter will be, but I will complete this story by the end of 2018, no question.**

 **Reviews are welcome, as always.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

* * *

According to the speedometer, Chris was going flat-out at 85 miles per hour. Like every damn thing made in the 1980s, the Camaro was calibrated up to 85 MPH and that was it. But from the howling roar of the V8 engine as Chris sped down one street after another, the scream of the tires as he took corners sharper than he'd have ever dared before, Chris knew that 85 was bullshit.

He was doing 90 at least when he spotted the Portland Police Department station on Midland Street. How he had avoided every car he'd nearly rammed on the way here, he had no idea, and Chris nearly broke his nose when he slammed on the brakes and screeched to a halt in the police station lot, surrounded by a cloud of burnt rubber.

From there, it was a struggle to shift into park, turn off the engine and fling the driver's door open. Blood ran from Chris' nose, which now was one of a thousand places on him that throbbed with pain. He didn't dare glance at the street. He was sure that giant black Hummer had been closing in on him all this way, and survival was his only priority.

Chris threw his exhausted, battered body into a sprint, thanking all that was holy for working out so much this year, for every friend who'd helped him better himself at the gym. Even Henry and Mark, because ironically, even their most minor efforts at assisting him with weightlifting and fitness had helped keep Chris alive so far.

Chris grabbed one of the double doors at the front of the station with his good hand, flung it open, then ran forward and flung the other open, too.

The desk sergeant was sipping from a cup of coffee, staring at some report or form, when he noticed the kid running in. He looked up, got a good look at Chris, spat out his coffee and went white as a ghost.

" !" the man exclaimed, almost falling out of his chair.

"MARKANDHENRYEVANSJUSTTRIEDTOKILLME!" Chris bellowed, also saying it with not a pause in between at all. He was so convinced that he was about to die, so terrified that his narrow escape had been only temporary, that he was desperate to blurt it all out before Mark and Henry came through the doors and killed him.

"Wh-what was that?" the sergeant said, hurrying to his feet. He shouted to someone else, "Get up here, Peterson! I don't care if you're on the phone or dead, get your ass up front!"

"They tried to kill me!" Chris screamed. "Mark and Henry! They just tried to kill me! I-I got away, I got away, but they're gonna try and kill me!" He risked a glance at the doors, where he saw only the lights of a police car, pulling in behind his Camaro in a big hurry.

Another police officer came running out from further into the station. "Sarge, what the hell is it, I was just taking a- Jesus Christ!"

"Yeah, I know!" the sergeant replied. "Get over here and let's sit him down!"

Just then someone came running in through the doors, and Chris screamed and instinctively bolted to get away, to stay alive. The young Maine State Trooper who had responded to the repeated calls of a maniac speeding through the streets of Portland had his pistol drawn, and he shouted at Chris to put his hands up. Chris was already trying to flee by then, but he ran right into the guy called Peterson, and his vision went white as his broken arm felt the worst of it. Chris fell back, hit the floor, and when he lost consciousness from the blow his head took, he thought he was dead and felt gratitude he had lived this long.

 _At least I didn't die in that fucking house_.

 **XX**

When Chris came to, he was lying on a padded, fold-down bed in some room in the police station. He immediately sat up, hyperventilating as hands touched him, held him down, and his eyes went wide with panic. Chris only knew he was in danger and that he had clearly been caught, and that was baaaad shit.

But the faces above him were not those of Henry and Mark. They wore uniforms, badges. Portland, Maine State Police. They were the authorities. Chris felt his broken right arm wrapped in something, and he had bandages in a few places, where the worst of the harm had been done to him. He smelled piss and sweat and fear and realized it was him.

"Easy, kid, easy," the sergeant told him. He had a round, brown face and a dark mustache, and he spoke softly, like he knew loud or sudden words might scare the wide-eyed, sweaty, battered kid even more.

"Where am I?" Chris asked.

"10th Precinct, Portland Police Department, 247 Midland Street," the sergeant said. "I'm Thomas Powell. You're safe. Whoever's after you, they can't get you now. We've got more guns than them, I promise."

As if to emphasize that point, the state trooper had a pump-action shotgun next to him, propped up against the wall beside his chair.

Chris decided he needed to talk immediately, before anything else happened. "They tried to kill me. Henry and Mark Evans got me to f-f-follow th-them to this h-house and-and-and they tried to kill me, I swear, they did. I got away but they-they're-"

The redhead started to hyperventilate again, stuttering and stumbling over his words as he started to really panic. The sergeant talked to him, said things in that strong, steady voice, and Chris was offered a cup of something. He took it, spilled it as his trembling fingers grasped it and immediately dropped it. They handed him another. It was water, plain water. To Chris' strained, parched throat, that felt amazing.

"Okay," Powell said again. "What happened? We're ready to believe you, kid, but we gotta know everything. We frisked you after you passed out after you ran into Peterson. Your ID says you're Christopher David Marshal."

"Yeah. Yeah, that's me."

"And you say two guys tried to murder you?"

"Henry and Mark Evans, they did."

"Where? When? I need everything you can tell me."

Chris did, stumbling over his words as he raced to tell everything he knew. He recounted going to the gym, how Henry and Mark had been there and how they had shown up in front of his vehicle, motioned for him to follow him. How, although he'd been tired and wanting to just go home, he'd decided not to risk pissing off the coolest guys at his high school and followed them to the creepy old giant mansion on the hill. They'd gotten him inside, and once they were well away from the front door, they had told him he was going to be the next person they killed. Chris felt his bladder go weak as he remembered the way they'd told it to him, how calmly and easily they'd said they'd murdered forty-four people and Chris was going to be next. Had there been anything else for his bladder to let go, Chris knew he would have wet his pants yet again.

But he didn't care about the humiliation of being covered in sweat and grime and blood and piss. He cared about being alive and trying to get somebody to believe him. So Chris forced himself to keep going, and he made sure to leave out the supernatural parts of the story, the things he had heard and seen. The way that house had gone on forever, the rooms not being where they were before, not being _what_ they were before. That endless feeling of being watched, that sense that the house was alive, that it hated him, and that it did not want him to escape.

Chris told them everything, right up to the moment he reached the station doors. Then he fell silent and looked down at himself. Just from what he could see here, he knew he had to look like hell. He didn't care. He was alive.

"Damn," Sergeant Powell said, shaking his head. He'd been writing steadily on a clipboard as Chris talked, and now he seemed to be reading it all over. "I thought I was gonna be home by 2. This is a hell of a story you got here."

"It's not a story," Chris blurted out. "Why would I make it up?"

"The window's smashed on his car's passenger side," the trooper said. "And I ran a light over it, saw some prints. Somebody could have been gripping the door the way he said."

"We'll need to get your prints," Powell told Chris.

"Sure, sure," Chris said. He began to feel woozy, and laid his head back down. "I don't feel so good."

"Just lie down, then," Powell told him. He got up and left the room, came back, explained some stuff to Chis. They took each of his hands, pressed them on this piece of paper or something, got what they needed. Chris just tried to breathe. He was amazed he still could.

They asked him more details, but Chris couldn't talk about it anymore. He couldn't stop thinking about what he'd seen, what he'd almost become, another damned soul trapped in that house when, until today, he hadn't even thought much about things like souls and what happened when you died. Chris told them what he could, but beyond that, his mind could take no more, and he just shook his head and moaned when they asked him anything else.

Eventually, Powell set a hand on Chris' filthy shoulder, said, "You're gonna be all right." The state trooper said he was gonna call some detective or another, and Chris wept, unable to help it. They left him alone, and eventually some people in paramedic's uniforms came in with a wheeled stretcher. Chris looked, made sure they weren't Mark or Henry, then let them put him on the stretcher. They said he was going to go to the hospital. Chris begged them to keep him alive, to keep Henry and Mark away from him. His arm hurt so bad. All of him hurt.

The ambulance was outside, red and yellow lights flashing, washing over Chris' mangled Camaro and the front of the police station. Chris tried to grab his arm as the pain spiked with every single bump on the pavement, and they gave him some morphine. When that cold liquid hit him, Chris' panic ended. He stopped caring about Henry, and about Mark, and when he passed out again he didn't care about anything.

 **XX**

Emory Parola was just getting out of his car when his cell phone started going off. He had been working very late tonight, and was in his driveway about to finally end the day. Then the damn cell phone went off. Cursing his bad luck to get called on this state-issue phone just as he reached his house, Parola pulled it out of his pocket, flipped the panel open and said, "Yeah?"

"Detective, this is Trooper Robert Daniels, sir."

"Well, Robbie, I hope this is good, because I just got home."

"A kid just ran into the 10th Precinct of Portland PD on Midland. He says Henry and Mark Evans just tried to murder him and gave us a lot of details. I don't know if he's making it up, or what, but he was flying through town like a bat out of hell on the way to the station."

That got Parola's attention. "Where is he now?"

"Portland General Hospital," Trooper Daniels answered. "Sir. We patched him up best we could, called for an ambulance and tried to get more details, but he clammed up and wouldn't say anything."

"Well, why was that?"

"Panic, sir. He seemed convinced he was still gonna die. He looked like hell, sir."

"Okay. Did he say anything about them touching the car? Does he have any proof beyond the details he stated?"

"He says that Mark Evans grabbed the passenger door after breaking it with his fist. He said there'll be prints on it. I took a quick look and there were prints where he said, but we don't know whose yet."

"I want Forensics over there to get-"

"Already called them, sir, right before I called you. We impounded the kid's car and they're gonna get any evidence that's on it."

"But we'll need the Evans boys' prints, too, to prove anything."

Daniels hesitated. "Sir, you think this kid's telling the truth about this?"

Parola thought of every doubt, every suspicion, every bad sense he'd ever had about the Evans brothers. How they were too clean, too perfect, too smooth. That nagging sense that there was something off about them, something missing.

What he said was, "I'm going over to Portland General and I'm gonna debrief him myself. What's his name again?"

"Christopher David Marshal, sir."

"Good work, Daniels. I want a full report from you on this, and expect to hear from me in a hurry."

"Yes, sir."

"Okay, that's all, Daniels. Thanks for letting me know about this."

"Not a problem, sir."

 **XX**

When Parola got to the hospital some twenty minutes later, he showed his badge to the front desk staff and they took him to where the kid was staying. He was alone in the room, his arm wrapped in a cast, looking surprisingly clean in that pale green hospital gown. Resting on the hospital bed, his eyes closed, he looked remarkably peaceful.

"He was looking pretty gruesome when the paramedics brought him in," the nurse commented. "We washed him down and bagged his clothes, cleaned his wounds and got his arm in a cast. The morphine they gave him should have worn off by now. At this point, he's just sleeping. So if you want, I can wake him up."

Parola almost said no. The kid might have been cleaned up some, but that arm, all those cuts and bruises, and the strained and pale look to someone with a solid, strong, athletic build said something had taken a terrible toll on him recently. He was obviously exhausted, and would not take it well when he was woken up. But Parola needed to move on this, and that meant, as the job so often demanded, doing something he'd rather not do.

"Okay, go ahead and wake him up," Parola said, nodding.

The nurse went over to the kid's bedside and gently shook his shoulder. "Chris. Chris. Wake up, someone's here to see you."

The boy shifted, stirred, then gasped and sat up, barely choking back a scream.

"What? Where am I?"

"Portland General Hospital," the nurse said. "You're safe."

"Well, who's he?"

"This gentleman is with the Maine State Police. He wants to ask about what happened to you."

"Okay," the kid said, after taking a moment to try and calm down. "Okay."

The nurse nodded to Parola, who walked up and held his hand out. The kid looked worried, and his eyes glanced at the door.

"They don't know where you are, Chris," Parola said reassuringly. "They can't get you here."

"You-you wanna talk to me?" Chris asked suddenly. "You believe me?"

"I do, Chris. I'm Detective Emory Parola, and I definitely believe you."

"You really believe me?" the red-haired youth replied, looking hopeful.

"Yes. But I need your help. I need you to tell me everything you told the Portland PD men and Trooper Daniels. I need to hear it all myself, and there's some things we're still missing."

"I'll tell you anything you wanna know," the kid said instantly. "Just help me. Please. Please help me."

Parola went and got a chair from across the room, brought it over and sat down beside Chris' bed. He glanced at the door again, but seemed to calm down somewhat. Parola got out a tape recorder, one he used on many an interview, and pressed the button with the red dot on it. The little wheels on the min-tape began turning, and Parola said, "Detective Emory Parola, Maine State Police, May 16, 1999, witness interview starting 11:45PM. Let's start with your name."

 **XX**

The questioning went on for over an hour. Parola wanted every scrap of information he could get, start to finish, and he went after it with single-minded determination. The kid talked steadily enough, even though he was exhausted and scared. He seemed to pull himself together, find the strength to keep going, and the fact that someone clearly believed him was visibly heartening for the boy.

"They said they'd done this before?" Parola asked.

"Yeah, yeah- forty-six times, or- or was it forty-four…" Chris frowned. "They s-said I'd be next. They said none of the people they killed are known as murdered because nobody found them. Like, they're missing."

"Go on."

"They-they did this to people. Brought them to that old house and murdered them. They said that they'd done it for years and nobody ever caught them doing it, and they'd do it to me just like they did all the other times."

"But they let you run first?" Parola asked. "Why did they do that?"

"I don't know," Chris said. "They said I needed to at least make it a challenge for them. I thought it was a bad joke, but Henry punched me and said he and Mark would kill me right there in the Glass Library. So I ran and… they hit me and let me go a couple times. Like they were playing with me."

"How'd you break your arm?"

"Mark did it," Chris answered. "He picked up this heavy ornament or a paperweight or something. I was trying to set this rug on fire, and he threw that thing and I heard this crack. Then I got up and ran while Mark and Henry tried to put out the fire."

"And it was Mark who shattered the passenger window on your car?"

"Yes," Chris said. "I didn't know somebody could do that with their fist. But Mark and Henry are- they're strong. You don't know."

"I know," Parola answered. "I've met them. They're pretty big guys."

"Yeah," Chris said. "Yeah." He reached for the necklace he wore, held up the silver cross pendant, clutched at it. He began mumbling something, and Parola realized after a moment that the kid was praying in Italian. He made no further comments, and seemed to forget the detective was even there.

"Chris, this has been a great help," Parola said. "Thank you. We'll be in touch again soon." He pressed "Stop" on the recorder and looked at the kid. "Chris."

The boy had been starting to pray again, but he stopped and looked at Parola. "Yeah? I mean, yes?"

"I believe you. Don't forget that. We need to do more before any arrests can be made, but… if you're lying, Chris, you don't know you are. And I don't think you are. I've had my suspicions about these two for a while now. You might just be the one that gets me the proof I've needed."

"I hope so," Chris said.

"Get some rest, Chris," Parola said, getting up to leave. "Like I said, you'll hear from me or another of my colleagues again soon."

He walked out, heading back to the office to file a report on this so he could finally go to bed and end this insanely long shift. But as Emory Parola got back into his car and started the drive to the state police station, he felt a sense of vindication, of hope. Maybe, just maybe, he would get a shot at bringing out the truth on Henry and Mark Evans at last.

 **XX**

Chris was exhausted, physically and mentally. He knew a broken arm was getting off easy. He was lucky to be alive.

Maybe that detective believed him. Maybe he didn't. Chris wasn't sure if it even mattered. He had gotten away, sure, but for how long? Henry and Mark were not going to just let him live, now that he'd escaped them once. He had seen too much, knew too much. They would come for him, sooner or later. And when they did, they would be strong and well-rested and confident. Chris was battered, frightened, and with his broken right arm, he was all but helpless.

Henry and Mark were brilliant and ruthless, and they never forgave or forgot a slight. And they had wanted to kill Chris _before_ he'd tried burning their haunted house down.

The escape from that house had been beyond terrifying. Chris' eyelids kept drooping shut, but when they did, he saw the faces of the dead, of the souls trapped in that house. He shook all over as he thought about how close he had come to joining them. How close his own soul had been to being trapped in that mansion, feeding the strength of that place for eternity…

 **XX**

There was no end to this place. There was no goddamned end! Chris had been running for what felt like hours, though it could have been just ten minutes. It was impossible to know. The clock on the wall was spinning backwards at a blinding speed, then forward after Chris blinked, then standing still when Chris blinked again.

His watch was gone. Chris didn't know where it was. He had also lost his cell phone. He doubted he'd ever see those items again. They were gone, vanished, swallowed up into the house.

Chris was breathing hard, too hard. His body ached for oxygen, for rest, but his head felt too light and the stink of sweat and urine kept wafting up to his nostrils. He leaned against the wall, putting his hand against it, but withdrew instantly, jerking away as if burned.

It felt wrong. Soft, smooth, but in some horrid, rotting way. He didn't want to touch it again. He didn't want to go near it.

The house had gone silent, apart from Chris' ragged breathing. He was in a lounge, or a smoking room, or something. Maybe it had been where New England's highest society gathered and discussed the big ideas and plans of the day. Maybe, once.

Now it was just a prop, another goddamned recyclable room in this never-ending house. Chris forced himself to take a breath, let it out. He needed to think.

Chris looked off to his right suddenly as a light came on. He expected to see Henry and Mark, or at least one of them, but it was just a lamp on an end table, with a black corded telephone, the kind where you spun a little wheel around each time you punched in a number. There had been no telephone when Chris had come into this room a minute ago. He'd looked directly at that end table. He knew. But Chris knew that if there was a phone, and it was working, even in here, he needed to call for help while there was still time.

The redheaded teen moved towards the telephone slowly, as if in a dream. He jabbed out a hand to snatch up the handset, but instead saw his hand descend incredibly slowly, enough so that he was surprised there weren't bubbles rising up like he was underwater.

Chris dialed Jason Morgan's cell phone number from memory. If anybody would come and help him now, it was Jason, and there was nobody who'd be happier to get handed full license to kick Henry and Mark's asses.

The telephone whirred and clicked, and then a voice began speaking. It wasn't Jason. It wasn't any human being Chris had ever met. It was harsh, grating, and inhuman. The sound of some electrical shaver or hair clipper that had learned to talk.

"Six! This is _six_!" the voice said with terrible urgency. "We have killed your friends! Every friend is now dead! Seven! This is _seven_! Take cover when the siren sounds! Eight! This is _eight_! Ignore the siren! Even if you leave this house, you will never leave this house!"

Chris stood there, rooted to the spot, listening in horror as the inhuman voice in the phone rose from a harsh whisper to a shout. "Nine! This is nine! Remain where you are! Your soul belongs to this house and your body will lie in this house!"

The redhead tried to say, "Help," but he knew that this phone would not let him call anyone. There would be no help. And all that came out of Chris was a dry wheeze.

"Six," the phone screamed, "Six, this is _six_ , this is _goddamn fucking SIX_!"

Right then Henry tackled him, and Mark pulled Chris' shorts and underwear down even as the redhead struggled.

"No," Chris managed to say. "No!"

Henry punched Chris in the face; his head snapped back and he tasted blood. Through a mouth of broken teeth, Chris managed to say "No" another time.

"Go ahead, Mark," Henry snarled. He slammed a hand down on Chris' legs and pinned them in place. Chris tried to pull Henry away, but with only one working arm, it was hopeless.

"You're gonna suffer, Chris," Mark said. "You have no idea."

"No, no, please-"

"You won't be needing these anymore," Mark commented, positioning the blade.

"Please-"

The knife slashed, severing Chris' privates in one swift motion, and Chris screamed.

He awoke, thrashing and screaming, with a nurse and doctor who'd been making rounds holding him down. Their hands didn't calm him. The contact terrified him, convinced him he was still there, that Henry and Mark had found him here in the hospital. Chris cried out in panic, but something pricked his arm, and ice-cold peace began to flow through his veins. Chris stopped screaming, stopped fighting. He lay back against the pillows and slept.

The story of the detective's visit to the battered boy in Room 223 spread among the nurses on the night shift, who knew he had barely escaped death tonight just by looking at him. One, a cousin of Nicole Miles, stopped by during her rounds to whisper in his ear that everything was going to be okay. On her break, she sent a text message to Nicole, who by the time she got to school the next morning had already begun spreading the word that someone had tried to kill Chris Marshall.

 **XX**

The school rumor mill was busy any time of the year, but it had been going insane since early Monday morning. Chris Marshall, one of the most popular kids in the school, the famed "SD", was dead. Or he was almost dead. One rumor said that Dwayne Johnson must have attacked Chris, because anybody else would've been in the hospital with him. Another said Chris fought a bear to impress some girls, with whom he was gonna have a threesome. Yet another insisted that Chris had been attacked by zombies, space aliens, or tentacles from Planet X.

Henry and Mark were inwardly shocked and pissed off that the literal truth of Sunday night had gotten out so fast. First Chris had gotten away, a first in all their years of luring people to Fleetwood Hall and murdering them. Now the identity of his attackers was being openly talked about.

The thing was, it sounded ridiculous, especially since Chris was well known to be part of Henry and Mark's inner circle- a privilege so many boys would have cheerfully died for. That it was also true meant nothing to Henry, or to Mark. They just needed to keep on conning people, like they had all their lives.

Now was not the time to show how fucking angry they were about all this, or how dearly Chris Marshall was going to pay. Now was the time to play it cool. No one could do that better than an Evans.

 **XX**

Thirty minutes before 1st Period, Henry was loitering by his locker, arms protectively around Lisa, his hands on her smooth, taut belly. He'd pulled her one-size-too-small shirt up and placed his hands directly over the suntanned skin.

Henry, who had been a cold and unemotional boy all his life, found he liked the rush of affection he felt when he had his hands on that spot. Inside this slut's stomach, Henry's boy was beginning to grow. His boy. His son.

"Henry?"

"Yeah, Liz?"

"Why're people saying you and Mark-"

Henry kissed her neck and pulled her a little closer. "Babe," he said softly, "I never killed anybody. Come on."

"I know, but-"

"It's just a bullshit rumor, babe."

Henry's hands were wandering again, going where they wanted. It didn't matter that they were in a crowded school hallway. Henry never cared. If he felt like doing some caressing, a little groping, he did it. Lisa knew better than to complain, and in any case it actually was turning her on.

Dropping the subject, at least for now, Lisa said, "Henry, can't we go out to my car real fast?"

"Lisa, we can fuck after school today. My place. I'm gonna blow you away."

"Don't you want me to blow you first?" Lisa asked slyly, warming to the prospect of some fun later on in the day.

Henry laughed. "I couldn't say no to that."

Carter Stevens and Martin Brodinsky showed up just then, and Lisa let out a hiss of irritation as Henry turned his attention from her to them.

"Hey, Henry!" Carter said brightly. "Mark! I'm sorry I was late, my mom was being a bitch and she tried to make me take the bus, but I called Martin here and his mom picked me up." Carter paused, took in a breath, and went on, "Kids're saying you guys tried to kill Chris Marshall, but I wanna say I know that's bullshit. Martin and I're on it. We're gonna make sure everyone knows the truth."

Henry looked at Mark, who nodded, impressed once again with the lean, well-muscled freshman.

"Carter," Henry said, "how about this. You do this right and we're gonna be pretty happy with you. We'll grant you a favor."

"What, still with this fuckin' freshman, Henry?" Jason scoffed, but Henry shot him the bird without a glance and Jason didn't continue.

"My brother and I are relying on you, Carter," Henry said with gravity and grace, like he really was a king giving an order to a trusted subject. "Get it done."

"Yes, sir!" Carter answered, his chest swelling with pride. "I mean, yes, Henry! Don't worry about a thing!"

"I never do," Henry replied.

As Carter and Martin departed, Mason Sarkozy asked, "Henry, you really think those two runts are gonna do anything?"

"Carter didn't need as long to pop his cherry as you did, Mason," Mark said, and Jessica laughed derisively and set off the rest of the girls and boys standing around. "All of you had better be doing what Carter and Martin are doing. I don't wanna hear another word about this bullshit story that Henry and I tried to kill Chris. Clear?"

"Yes, Mark."

"You got it, Mark."

"Sure thing, man."

"See, Henry," Mark said with a smile, "that's why we keep these people around. Every king needs subjects."

"It's the truth, my brother," Henry agreed, nodding his head sagely.

"Hey, guys," Tony Summers said, casually waltzing up and slapping palms with a bunch of the guys gathered around. Despite having a couple ex-girlfriends and former one-night-stand partners- most of whom agreed Tony was sexy but a complete and total dog- he was completely at ease. "So, I heard _someone_ broke his arm on Sunday, and I was gonna go see him at the hospital later-"

Henry suddenly turned, grabbed Tony's jaw, and hurled him against a locker in one swift motion. Tony hit the locker with a loud bang and crashed to the floor, looking completely stunned. Henry stared down at him and hissed, "I'm sick and tired of hearing about that fucking loser."

"Hey!" Jason exclaimed, shocked and angry. "What the hell was _that_ for?"

" _Shut the fuck up_ , Jason, unless you wanna be next," Mark snapped, backing his brother's play.

Before anyone else could say anything, the bell rang, and Mark announced, "We better get to class." With that, the royal court dispersed.

 **XX**

"Henry," Mark said as they headed off to class, "you can't just throw everybody into a locker if they say that prick's name."

"I can do whatever I want!" Henry shot back.

Mark was a little worried about Henry right now. He wasn't as in control of himself as he normally was. Probably the whole fuckup with Chris getting away was eating at him, making him nervous. Henry was normally the one who was controlled and Mark the one who was emotional, but at the moment their roles were reversed. Mark wordlessly put an arm around Henry's massive shoulders and hugged him. Henry tensed up, then relaxed, and after a few moments Henry said, "Thanks, Mark."

"I love you, Henry."

"I love you, too."

"Let's just keep it cool, alright? Nobody's gonna believe him. Just stay cool. We'll be fine."

"Alright, Mark, now let go of me before people think we're dating."

"I'm a dad," Mark whispered. "I've made other commitments."

"Oh, like _you'll_ ever settle for commitment."

Mark laughed. How had he ever disagreed with Henry as a kid, even disliked one thing about him? This guy was amazing. Mark went to class with his brother totally unconcerned, confident that he and Henry would come out on top like they always did.

It was almost too easy.

 **XX**

As the crowd drifted away- none of whom had done a thing or raised a hand to help Jason's childhood friend- the heavily-muscled teen knelt and carefully checked Tony's head. He was all right. That resounding bang as he'd hit the locker had both scared Jason and pissed him off. There was a line with Jason, and physically abusing his closest friends in front of him was it. Henry and Mark were on fucking notice after this, whether they knew it or not. There was no chance Jason would stand for much more.

"Hey, Tony, you all right?" Jason asked.

"Uh, I think so," Tony said. He gingerly felt the back of his head and looked up at the dent in the locker Henry had thrown him against. "Was it something I said?"

"Yeah. I guess so. Henry better fucking watch himself."

"Why?"

"Because he does that again, he better count his goddamn teeth first."

Tony winced. "Man, don't take the name of the Lord in vain like that."

"Tony, were you serious about that? Going to see Chris?"

"Of course, I love that guy. No homo."

Jason helped Tony stand up and considered that idea for a moment. "Okay. Let's go right after 7th Period ends."

 **XX**

Taylor Bedford had been getting bombarded with questions about Chris Marshall and his status, whereabouts, etc. practically since he'd woken up. It was a nightmare trying to sort through every story, every rumor. The only thing Taylor could make sure of was that Henry and Mark Evans were pissed off, that Chris Marshall was in the hospital, and he needed to get to the bathroom fast, because he'd had way too much water to drink after hitting the gym this morning.

The handsome class president made his way toward the nearest bathroom with as much dignity as he could muster, and was just about to unzip at a urinal when Mark Evans grabbed him and spun him around. The auburn-haired teen titan was grinning in a way Taylor really, really didn't like. It wasn't just the expression, itself- it was the utterly pitiless, cold look in those blue eyes.

"Hey, Taylor."

"Uh- h-hey, M-Mark!" Taylor replied, laughing nervously.

"See," a blond freshman with a virtual copy of Henry's haircut said as leaned against the tiled wall a few feet away, "I told you he'd be here. Poor guy really needed to piss."

"Thanks, Carter," Mark said. "Now get out of here and let me and Taylor have a little talk."

"Sure thing, Mark." Carter bowed elegantly, as if to a king, then left the bathroom.

"So- so we need to talk?" Taylor said, desperate to keep his voice level and calm. He knew how much both Evans brothers despised weakness.

"You're gonna help me tell the truth. A lot of bullshit's going around and you're gonna help set it straight."

"Oh, I'd love to help!" Taylor exclaimed, nodding frantically. "Uh, h-h-howabout we get together a-a-fter lunch, and-and we can-"

Mark punched Taylor in the gut so fast he never knew it was happening until he was on his knees, straining to get his chest to loosen up. Urine stained his shorts and Taylor felt tears welling in his eyes. He'd come so far, amounted to so much. He was helpless all the same.

"I don't wanna fucking hang out with you, Taylor," Mark sneered. "My brother and I _own_ you. You're just some loser in nice clothes we made into the class president, 'cause we didn't want the job. You put the word out that the story about Henry and me is a lie, or you'll be fucking sorry, Taylor. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Taylor forced out.

"What?"

"Yes, sir," Taylor managed to say. He kept his eyes on the floor.

"Good." Mark turned and left like Taylor didn't even exist.

Taylor made an emergency call to Kenny Thomas, a bright and promising junior who acted as his aide, and asked him to come and assist him in getting his track clothes out of his car ahead of time. While he waited for the replacement clothes to arrive, Taylor wept out of terror and humiliation, wondering what in the name of God Mark and Evans were making him cover up this time.

Before long, though, Taylor thought about the story going around that Henry and Mark Evans had attempted to murder Chris Marshall, and started wondering about it. Why would it matter to Henry and Mark so much if it really was a lie?

 **XX**

Chris was asleep when Jason and Anthony came into the hospital room where he was staying. Visibly battered, his right arm in a cast, Chris neither moved nor opened his eyes when the two athletes first spoke his name. Eventually, the nurse went over to him and gently shook him by the shoulder. Chris suddenly sat up, eyes wild.

"Ah!" he gasped. "What! Wha-?"

"It's okay, Chris," the nurse said. "You're safe."

"Safe?" Chris repeated doubtfully, looking around.

"Safe," the nurse agreed. "Two of your friends are here to see you.'

The wild look faded from Chris' eyes, and he seemed to become more aware of where he was. Then he saw Jason and Anthony standing there and smiled.

"Hey, guys."

"You had us worried," Anthony said. "Chamberlain's missing its most popular ginger."

"I'll leave you boys to it," the nurse said.

"Please watch the hallways," Chris blurted nervously. "And the doors. Henry and Mark Evans. They'll t-try to g-get in."

"We're on top of it," the nurse assured him. "Don't worry."

A few seconds passed after the nurse left; Chris dropped his eyes to the blanket over him, fidgeted with it, muttered to himself.

"You really look like shit," Jason remarked.

Anthony threw him a dirty look. "Wow, Jason, that's really fucking nice, you know that? I mean, you really have a way with words! You're real fuckin' sensitive, I gotta tell you, man."

"It's true!" Jason insisted, shrugging awkwardly. "He's my friend, I'm not gonna fuckin' bullshit him like that!"

They all went silent for a few moments; Jason looked back at Chris and Tony. "What?"

Chris gave a weak laugh. "I'm pretty sure that's the first time you ever admitted we were friends."

Jason shrugged his broad shoulders again. "Well, I came here because Tony found out this is where they took you, not because, you know, I care about you or anything."

"Thanks," Chris said. He laughed again, but quickly stopped, wincing. "Shit, that hurts."

"What the hell happened to you?" Jason asked. "People at school are saying that you fought a bear, went to Russia and beat up everybody there-"

"…And about a hundred other things," Anthony finished. "Nicole says she's gonna kill you if you don't call her, by the way."

"There's one I don't get," Jason said. "There's a rumor going around that Mark and Henry did it."

Anthony laughed nervously. "Oh, come on, man, there's just no way-"

"They did. That's exactly what happened."

"What?"

"Huh?"

Chris stared down at the cast holding his broken arm. "Mark and Henry Evans tried to kill me on Sunday. They brought me to that creepy, big fucking house on the edge of town and… and…"

"They tried to kill you?" Jason asked.

"Yes," Chris answered. His gaze flicked to the door. He felt himself trembling. "Jason- Tony- I-I want someone to guard the door. Guard it now, please."

Jason and Tony both stared at him. "What?" Jason asked.

"Goddamn it, I don't wanna die!" Chris exclaimed. "I have nightmares whenever I sleep. I'm still in that house. I had one where Henry and Mark figured out I was here, and they put a pillow over my face…"

Chris lost it after that, and he couldn't talk or think straight for some time. He felt Anthony's strong arms around him, and at one point, he felt Jason's. Comforting him, reminding him he was still alive. Chris felt for the cross around his neck, and holding it brought him back a little.

 _You made it, Chris told himself. You're alive. Two fucking awesome guys are here. They're your best friends. If Henry and Mark come through that door they'll be in for a fight. God, please watch out for them. They deserve it. Please help them… and me._

At some point- Chris wasn't sure when- Tony knelt next to him, holding the identical cross he wore around his own neck, and the two boys prayed together in Italian.

"Chris," the senior class playboy asked afterward, "I need to know everything. Jason does, too. Tell us and we'll help you."

"I need you to believe me," Chris said desperately. "Please. It's gonna- it'll sound crazy but I'm not making it up, I swear."

"You've never lied to us," Tony answered confidently. "We believe you. Right, Jason?"

Jason didn't reply. He stood there, looking at his two best friends with bewilderment, even fear, plain on his face. But there was anger, too, a lot of it. Jason closed his hands into fists, opened them again, closed them.

"Jason?" Tony asked.

"You better not be making this up, Chris," Jason said. "Either somebody's gonna pay for this, or you are, and if it's you-"

"For fuck's sake, you stupid fucking meathead," Chris burst out, "I'm your best friend! Shut the fuck up and stop acting like a fucking Neanderthal!"

Jason stared at Chris, mouth agape, for several seconds. Finally, he managed to say, "What's a Neanderthal?"

"Christ, have pity," Chris moaned. "Jason, have I ever lied to you? Ever?"

"Well, no, but-"

"You trust me, don't you?"

"Yeah, but-"

"Then get one of those chairs and sit down!"

Jason did as he was told, looking thoroughly stunned. Chris had never talked to him like this and it was obvious Jason didn't know how to react.

"Okay," Anthony said. "Tell us everything."

Chris took in a breath, let it out, and glanced nervously at the door again. "All right."

 **XX**

It took more than an hour for Chris to tell them the whole story. He spared no details, despite the nagging fear that including the supernatural aspects of what happened would cause his most trusted friends to disbelieve and reject his story.

Telling the story to Detective Parola had been hard. Telling it a second time to Jason and Anthony proved nearly impossible. Chris' mind traveled as he talked, bringing back memories he never wanted to see again. He was not himself, speaking nervously, fidgeting with his free hand and repeatedly glancing at the door to make sure Henry and Mark hadn't shown up.

It was horrible having to tell the story a second time. Chris had to stop repeatedly to compose himself, and at times he wasn't sure if he could go on. But somehow, he did go on. Thinking of Jason's immense strength, personally and physically, and the fact that nothing ever really seemed to stop Tony or even slow him down in life, helped him go on.

Eventually, Chris reached a point where he knew he had told his friends everything. His throat was dry, and his sheets were damp, and Chris realized with humiliation that at some point he'd pissed himself.

Tony and Jason both looked like they'd seen a ghost. They were pale and wide-eyed, and neither one seemed sure of what to say.

"Uh…" Jason began, after trying to talk for half a minute. "Did- did you tell the cops all this?"

"I told them they said they'd murdered all those people," Chris answered. "I didn't say anything about that- that fucking house."

"Good," Jason said. "I… uh… I think you'd have a hard time convincing the cops of this ghost story shit."

"Well, what about you? Do you believe me, or what?" Chris pleaded. "I'd never make it up, Jason."

"Can you prove any of this?" Anthony asked. "Besides what you told us, is there any other proof?"

"Isn't what I went through enough?" Chris answered, starting to cry. "What do I have to do, _let_ them kill me?"

"No," Jason replied. "But- dude, think about how this sounds. Yesterday evening we were lifting weights like we always do. Now you're talking all this shit about souls, and Henry and Mark being serial killers-"

"Okay, okay," Chris said. "There's one thing. Henry grabbed me and burned his hand on the cross Tony gave me- I mentioned that, right?"

"Yeah," Jason nodded.

"Check Henry's hand at lunch tomorrow. There oughta be a burn mark on his- his right hand."

"And if there's not?"

"Then I guess I made it all up." Chris was exhausted after reliving everything that happened. He'd almost died in that house… "Guys, I'm gonna get my Mom to talk to the hospital. They'll let me out, and I want you to take me home. And once I'm home I want you guys to stay at my place. I-I don't wanna be by myself. They're gonna come after me and finish the job."

Jason sighed. "I never thought… okay. Okay, Chris. I'll try and look at Henry's hand tomorrow. I- uh… I'm glad you're okay."

"Thanks, Jason," Chris said, tearing up suddenly. "I'm glad I got to see you guys again."

Anthony gave Chris another hug before leaving, and after hesitating, Jason did as well. Chris cried. He couldn't help it. He was so happy to be alive.

XX

Lisa lay on Henry's luxurious king-size bed, nestled up to her amazing superstar-athlete boyfriend under the covers. She was still recovering from an hour of vigorous, virtually non-stop lovemaking. Unprotected sex with Henry had gotten her pregnant, but it also shattered Lisa's mind and made her forget every problem she had. It was like a high she just could never get enough of.

Henry needed the sex in his own way, of course, especially after all the shit he'd had to put up with today. Henry worked so hard to get where he was, and nobody seemed to appreciate that sometimes. He needed the right girl to help him relax at the end of a long, stressful day. Lisa had started things off with a blowjob- a lengthy one- and Henry rewarded her by taking her to heaven and back.

With one powerful arm, Henry gently brushed Lisa off him, putting a hand on her smooth, taut belly and caressing it gently. The baby. Henry was thinking about the baby again.

It was an accident. Having kids with Henry was literally the next step of Lisa's dream. She was prepared to make as many little blond boys and girls as Henry wanted, but they needed to be married and on their own first. Becoming parents in high school had been a mistake.

 _But Henry doesn't make mistakes. He never does. Everyone knows that._

The pregnancy hadn't been planned. Henry had just put a kid in his girlfriend without realizing it. Didn't that _mean_ he'd made a mistake?

Why was Henry so easily angered if anyone so much as mentioned Chris Marshall now?

What was going on?

Lisa had meant to fuck Henry and then question him, but he'd hit her once or twice before (only when she'd provoked him, though) and Lisa didn't want to upset him. She ultimately chickened out on her plan to question Henry about the rumor going around that he and Mark had tried and failed to kill Chris Marshall. Instead, she let Henry screw her a few more times, take her out to dinner, and then drop her off at home.

After assuring her parents she was fine, everything was fine, it was all just fine, Lisa went upstairs. A wave of nausea hit her, and she spent the next twenty minutes hugging the toilet, cursing the horrible timing of the first baby she'd gotten to have with Henry.

 **XX**

Jason Morgan lay in the luxury of his king-size bed, listening to the air conditioning running in the house, and the sound of Brittany Jorgensen breathing beside him. He'd kept to his plan to invite her over for dinner, and ate her out for desert. The sex that followed was amazing; Brittany always had been a great lay. She was of course extremely satisfied with Jason, who took great pride in his sexual prowess.

Normally, Jason would be worn out enough by this point that falling asleep was never a problem.

It was right now, though.

Was it really possible that Chris had been telling the truth? Was there really a house from Hell, a place that stored up souls of people who died there? And Henry and Mark Evans… was their superhuman strength, stamina, athletic talent and sexual prowess all due to supernatural aid from that creepy old mansion, the Blake place on the other side of town?

It was bullshit. It had to be. Jason didn't even believe in shit like souls. His own muscles and sheer awesomeness, and the chance to do cool things and have fun, were all he really cared about. Jason didn't have time for talking about souls.

But Chris had never, ever talked like that before. Jason couldn't think of why he'd suddenly start now.

 _Why would he, unless he was telling the truth? He sure looks like somebody tried to kill him._

Jason folded his hands behind his head and sighed. He wished this hadn't happened, so he didn't have think about this crap. Even Tony was starting to buy it.

 _Aren't you, too? If this is all bullshit to you, why aren't you asleep?_

That was completely beside the point. Jason was cool, too cool, and he hadn't gotten there by talking about souls and shit all the time.

 _Admit it. You made Chris into the cool, badass guy he is now, and only two guys could make him this scared._

Jason wasn't worried about his friend. He wasn't afraid of trying to look at Henry's right hand tomorrow, something that'd be extremely dangerous to do if Chris was telling the truth. If Henry knew that Jason knew…

The brown-haired teen shrugged his muscular shoulders. He wasn't worried. Why the hell would he be? Fucking souls and shit. It had to be some drug trip Chris was on after he went home Sunday night. That had to be it.

 _You don't believe that._

"Jesus, what the fuck is happening to everybody?" Jason said, a little louder than he'd meant to.

"Hmm?" Brittany said, turning over under the covers.

"Shh, babe," Jason said. "It's all right. Just sleep."

"Mm-kay…"

Jason didn't believe any of what Chris had said. That was exactly why he had performed so well with Brittany. Trying desperately to tire himself out so he'd fall asleep quickly, Jason had given probably the best sexual performance of his life. He'd blown Brittany away, and she'd said so when they finished their last session. That had been the plan, fuck until he fell asleep, basically. And it should have worked.

Instead, Jason was up until midnight was a distant memory, trying to figure out what it could mean for him if the Evans brothers really were serial killers, if there really was a God who might have put a burn mark on Henry's hand, and if human beings had souls. He was literally about to go with Tony and figure out some plan to get a look at Henry's right palm at school tomorrow. It was insane, but Jason was doing it. He had to know.

 _What the fuck is happening around here? Has everybody gone crazy?_

* * *

 **A/N: 9-8-2018.**

 **Edited: 9-9-2018.**

 **The first chapter of this story was posted on 3-4-2018, and here we are 6 months and 4 days later. Why? Well, I was busy, I procrastinated, but more recently I had lost access to my data. About a month ago, my previous laptop broke a hinge, tore out its own charging port and promptly ran out of power. I had no backups of my files, so all my writing came to an abrupt and total halt. For weeks I had no idea if I would ever get the data back, because the hard drive was strangely evasive of attempts to access it- the thing was literally not showing up. Then I took it to the friend who'd custom-installed that solid-state drive for me 3 years ago, and like the computer genius he is, he tried a few things, then rebooted his PC with Linux instead of Windows. That did it.**

 **This is an excellent tale, in and of itself here in the author's notes. Mostly because of its moral: Back up your data. In at least three different places. Back it up regularly and never, ever let yourself be caught with no access to your data and no backup of any of it. I was lucky this time, but I almost wasn't. Back up your data.**

 **Having said that, Chapter 2 of "The Downfall" didn't take that long to complete from where it was. I'd already written the majority of it before the data was put beyond my reach. I just went through and evaluated it, added some content, removed some content, modified and edited some more.**

 **Stephen King's 1999 short story _1408_ is directly referenced, with some text borrowed verbatim or near-verbatim from the story itself, in this chapter. Three guesses as to when that happens.**

 **Feedback is welcome, so feel free to share your thoughts in a review and/or a PM.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

* * *

Laura Marshal had been so busy with her friend's second wedding and all the excitement, plus visiting a few relatives who lived down there. She hadn't had this much fun catching up with people in years! Her sister Denise had even talked her into splitting the tab on an emerald green 2000 Plymouth Breeze, the Expresso edition no less, enabling Laura to get a new car a full year ahead of schedule.

So busy was Laura enjoying her visit to the greatest city in Pennsylvania that she wound up staying well into Monday night. She passed many enjoyable hours with her sister at her house, getting the first quality time they'd had together in a long while. Laura decided, after some hesitation, to stay a day longer in Philly, and accepted her sister's offer to stay overnight. She wasn't worried. Chris was a wonderful boy who'd chosen some wonderful friends, and he could be trusted as much as any teenager in the world could. He'd be fine, and being a teenage boy, he'd probably be delighted to have the place to himself for an extra day. Laura could wait a little longer before going back.

That turned out to be one of the biggest mistakes she'd ever made.

When she turned it on early Tuesday morning, Laura found three messages waiting from Portland General Hospital, informing her that Chris had been assaulted on Sunday night, that he was hurt but in stable condition, and that they needed to reach her right away, as the assault had been reported to the police.

There was also a message from Jason Morgan, one of Chris' more charming athletic friends, and his pretty girlfriend Nicole Miles, both of whom had visited him at the hospital and wanted to assure her Chris was okay. Touching as their messages were, nothing could have prepared Laura for the next one. It was from Chris.

"Hey, Mom," her son said in a shaky, halting, frightened voice. "Um, I-I just wanted you to know I'm alive. I'm hurt but they said I'm gonna be all right. The doctors. They said that. These guys, Henry and Mark Evans- they tried to kill me on Sunday."

Chris stopped then, and it sounded like he was crying. "I'm scared, Mom. I want to go home. Please. I just wanna go home now. Please come back."

 **XX**

There was a chance that Laura had broken the land speed record in the 6-hour drive from Philly to Portland. After she listened to that message of a battered, frightened boy who sounded nothing like her bold, confident, adventurous son, Laura was absolutely convinced something had gone horribly wrong. She was out of her sister's house and on the road within 20 minutes, and stopped only for gas on the entire trip up. She was on a mission. Laura didn't hear, see, or think anything but her only child, her boy Chris, and the desperate need to get home to him.

Laura never once checked the speed she was going during the long drive up I-95, but a Maine State Police car came speeding after the Plymouth just as she got into the outskirts of the Portland area. She was so close by then that she had been unconsciously leaning harder on the accelerator, pushing the 4-cylinder Breeze up to just over 100 miles per hour.

As terrified as she was for her son, Laura, who very much considered herself a good citizen and had raised Chris to be the same way, seriously considered just putting the gas pedal to the floor and running for it. From the sound of things, someone had tried to murder her boy over the weekend, and that especially meant no one on this Earth could stop her.

But with the Caprice looming in her rearview mirror, lights and siren going, Laura realized, suddenly, that maybe she did need to stop, after all. So, she pulled over and immediately told the trooper what was going on when he came up to the window. He radioed it in, came back and said two men called Detective Parola and Trooper Daniels already knew about Chris, and actually took the lead the rest of the way, giving her a police escort straight to the hospital.

 **XX**

From there, everything was a blur, even more than before. Laura barely noticed parking up front and heading inside, didn't even glance at the trooper who'd so kindly sped her on her way here. She had no time. She needed to see her son. It took some time until the hospital staff actually took her to him, much to Laura's frustration- as if anyone else would come in claiming to be Chris' mother!

At long last, though, they had a nurse show her to the room where Chris was staying. Laura's chest tightened up as she approached the room, and when she turned the corner, she took in a sharp breath and almost screamed.

Chris was a gaunt, pale shadow of his former self, with deep, dark circles under his eyes. He hadn't shaved in a day, and his neatly-styled hair was now a complete mess. Apart from his pale green hospital gown, he wore a white cast on his right arm, already signed by a few friends. He was sleeping.

"He's been a model patient," the nurse assured Laura. "I'm afraid he's quite frightened, but he's been very kind. He's just scared and when he wakes up, he's not always sure where he is."

"He said the Evans boys tried to murder him."

"He told us that, too." The nurse hesitated. "I-I don't know what to say about that. On the one hand, those two are these big heroes. Everyone loves them. But… Chris is such a nice boy, I can't conceive of him lying about something like that."

"Can I see him, now? Can I speak to him? He wants to go home."

"Yes, we let him use his cell phone after he asked about you a few times. He spends most of his time sleeping, but, I can try to wake him up if you'd like."

"Please." Laura knew her voice was shaking, knew how scared she had to look. She couldn't help it.

The nurse went over to Chris' bedside, and gently shook his left shoulder. Chris stirred, then suddenly gasped and sat bolt upright, breathing hard. "What? What? What is it?"

"Easy, Chris," the nurse said. "It's okay. You're safe. No one's going to hurt you."

"I want my Mom," Chris whimpered, sounding like the frightened boy he was. "Is she here yet?"

Laura was already rushing into the room by then. "Chris, it's me, I'm here!"

"Mom!" Chris cried, and he reached out for her. Careful of his broken right arm, Laura met her son's embrace. Within a second the strong, athletic teenager had broken down. He wept uncontrollably, hiding his battered face as he sought the comfort and strength only a mother could give.

"Mom…" Chris moaned, "Mom… Mom…"

"It's okay, Chris," Laura forced out, stroking her son's red hair. "Mommy's here. Mommy's gotcha. No one's gonna hurt you."

"I almost died, Mom… I almost died…"

"Shh," Laura said, holding her trembling son close. "You're safe. Everything's going to be all right."

Chris said some other things, but none of them were intelligible. Eventually he gave up and just cried. At some point the nurse quietly withdrew, leaving mother and son alone.

This was something that many people, even parents, tended to forget. As much as they tended to demand independence and to be treated like adults, teenagers were still in many ways children all the same. They were still kids, and in times of hurt and fear they turned to their parents, seeking protection and comfort, following thousands of years of human history. Always, always, the father and mother were where the buck stopped. Laura did not believe Chris was always going to be her little boy. He was already well on his way to becoming a man, aided in doing so by the friends he had chosen and the lifestyle he lived.

But right now, Chris was wounded, tired and badly frightened. He showed every sign of someone who had almost died, which made Laura all the more convinced he was telling the truth. She had never met the Evans brothers, but the way Chris talked about them, they didn't sound entirely like Boy Scouts. They sounded like their anger was greatly feared, like there was a side to them you never wanted to see.

 _They won't get a second chance. Sunday night was the only one they'll ever have to get at Chris. I'll be ready for whatever comes next._

Slowly, very slowly, Chris calmed down. Eventually he became so still that Laura was briefly alarmed. But she had the sense to stay still and check his breathing and his pulse, which was evening out. After a moment, Laura realized her son had simply fallen asleep.

It was several hours before Chris woke up again. During that time Laura didn't leave his side once. At one point, the nurse came by and commented that since Chris had been here, he had never been truly calm, and anytime he woke up he was frightened and wondering where he was. Now, she said, he was sleeping like he was safe at home.

 _It's because Mom is here,_ Laura thought to herself _. Chris needed me and now that I'm here, he knows he'll be all right. No doctor in the world can have the same kind of calming effect that a good mother can._

 **XX**

Jason Morgan had never once in his life needed to "act casual", but here he was getting out of his Mustang GT, sunglasses on and a t-shirt that was maybe a size too small displaying his handsome, well-sculpted muscles handsomely, looking toward his high school with nervous anticipation.

Brittany Jorgensen was getting out beside him, looking hot as hell in those khaki short-shorts and a green tee that left most of her waist bare. _Any hotter_ , Jason thought, _and she'd be violating the dress code._

It was Jason's idea that they go and drive out to a quiet side road and fuck during 4th Period. Jason didn't give a shit about that class, anyway. The year was almost over and he'd be graduating soon, in the upper half of his class, at least. Barely. But the diversion was about way more than the year being over.

The dark-haired athlete had insisted on it because he was scared.

Obviously, he had denied it when Tony had noticed something off about him this morning, and when Brittany had remarked on it just before eating some dick to get things started. Jason was so goddamn manly, he had no time to admit anything was fucking scaring the shit out of him, but he was sure as hell all the same.

Sure, the idea that his hated rivals, those colossal pricks Henry and Mark Evans, had tried to murder somebody as awesome and fun as Chris Marshal filled Jason with rage. It also caused him to feel a kind of savage joy, a sense of _They can't get away with this now! They're going down this time for sure!_

But the idea that God was apparently real, human beings had goddamn _souls_ , for Chrissakes, and the Evans brothers- huge, macho, charismatic and powerful in every sense of the word- were actually fucking _serial killers_ who got their kicks torturing and murdering people was not only overwhelming for eighteen-year-old Jason Morgan's mind, it was thoroughly unnerving and terrifying.

 _What am I supposed to do about that? Why did I have to be the one who got this shit put on his plate on a Monday night? Why not my stupid nerd brother or some asshole like that? Why the hell did it have to be me?_

It didn't matter. Jason was stuck with this thing no matter what protests he came up with.

"Hey, you coming, or what?" Brittany asked, her voice light with amusement.

"Nah," Jason said, relieved that he sounded cool as could be. "I did plenty of that in the car."

"Yeah, you make a mess, Jason," Brittany said, laughing as Jason blushed and sputtered irritably.

"Well, it's only because you fucking turn me on," Jason blurted.

Brittany looked at him, surprised and pleased. "Really?"

"Um, yes. Really. You know what I like."

"You wanna tell me all about it at my place tonight?"

Jason grinned. "Oh, yeah."

"Okay." She took his hand. "Let's go in and have lunch."

"I already ate."

"I meant hot dogs or something."

"No, that was you."

Brittany laughed. "Let's go in. I'll buy you some corn dog nuggets or something."

Jason went with her, pleased at his own clever wit getting him the promise of some more pussy later today. His initial nervousness at going inside to carry out the plan he and Tony had made to check Henry's palm was largely suppressed thanks to his own little scheme for relaxing beforehand.

Nonetheless, as Jason headed in through the double doors and looked across the cafeteria to where Henry and Mark were already holding court, he felt it again, that quiet, nagging voice inside him going, _Oh, shit, oh, shit, oh, shit…_

 **XX**

Anthony came up behind his best friend and clapped him on both ears as he was talking with Brittany Jorgensen in the serving line. Until he announced his presence, he had moved like a ninja. Once he did, though, Jason immediately got pissed off. He'd been reacting that way to Tony's antics since they were little kids, and it never ceased to make Tony laugh.

"God _damn_ it!" Jason yelled, dropping his tray and whirling around. He grabbed for Tony, but he was already running out the kitchen door, then hooking left and through the double doors. Jason was right behind him, as noisy as an elephant, and he looked absolutely livid when Tony turned around.

"Alright, you wanna party, bitch?" Jason snarled. "Come on!"

"Hey, hey, hey!" Tony exclaimed, backing away. "Come on, calm down!"

"I'll fucking put your lights out!" Jason barked, swinging at him.

"Hey!" Tony barked back, putting up his hands and catching Jason's wrists. "I was just kidding, man! Now calm down!"

"Fuck- you-" Jason grunted, shoving forward with all his considerable strength. "I'm gonna fuckin' show you- _let me go_!"

Tony kept his hands on Jason's wrists. Even if he was known mostly as a shameless, promiscuous charmer, Tony loved lifting weights and was more than capable of keeping Jason's wrists in place right now.

"Let's talk, Jason," Tony said reasonably. "I'm sorry I clapped you on the ears and I won't do it again. Soon. But I want to ask you something."

"What?" Jason asked tersely, still breathing hard but not trying as much to swing at Tony.

"How'd skipping 4th Period go?"

"It was awesome. Brittany wants me over at her place tonight."

"You feel better?"

"A little." Jason sighed. "What? Did you wanna get me talking about my _feelings_?"

"You know you can always talk to me."

It was a heartfelt line, and both of them knew it. Tony was extremely good at reading people and social situations, and steering them, usually to his benefit. He was both proud and ashamed of the number of times he'd told a girl sweet, heartfelt things and she'd believed him. But even if Tony had lied to a lot of his sexual partners- virtually all of them at some time or another, especially when he started cheating- Tony also knew how to be loyal to people he cared about. He had always been there when guys like Jason wanted someone to talk to, even if they were too proud to show it.

Jason looked away, grunted. "Yeah, whatever." But he didn't say it with any energy or style, something he virtually always did. It sounded like he was covering, which Tony knew he was. But he also knew better than to press it. Jason liked to pretend he had no feelings and was too manly to ever need anybody, but he liked, respected, and trusted Tony a great deal.

"So, which one of us is gonna go check? Henry's hand, I mean?" Tony asked quietly.

"Well-"

"I can do it," Tony said. "Maybe I should do it. I'm smooth, you know I can be."

"Yeah, but…" Jason sighed. "Look. Can you let go of me? I'm not gonna hit you."

"Swear? Double pinky swear?"

It was an old test of sincerity between them, going back to elementary school, and Jason smiled as he remembered, then nodded. "Sure. I double pinky swear."

Tony let go, and Jason lowered his arms. "So which one of us looks at his hand?" Tony asked.

"Can't we just both do it or something?"

"No," Tony said, shaking his head. "Henry or Mark will notice something. And I bet they're on alert already. They've been acting a little strange, and, well, we know why. If we both start trying to eyeball Henry's hand it's gonna make 'em wonder what the fuck's going on."

"Okay, I'll do it," Jason decided. "You sit to my right and try to glance or something when I go to shake Henry's hand."

"That's what you're planning on doing?"

"How else are we gonna get Henry to show us his fuckin' hand? Ask to play volleyball after school?"

Tony thought about making a joke about that one, and normally he would have. But now- "Okay. Let's do it. Remember, keep it cool. Let's get back inside before Brittany starts thinking you killed me."

Jason laughed.

 **XX**

Henry was busy trying to spoon-feed Lisa some yogurt when Jason and Tony came over with Brittany Jorgenson and Anne Robertson, making some bullshit excuse Henry didn't hear, because he wasn't listening. At his right, Mark was listening to Carter Stevens report on the PR shit, which was not going as well as expected. Carter had promised he'd have it handled by now, and he had failed to keep his word, which normally was grounds for severe punishment.

Carter knew it, too, given how pale he was, twice dropping his cell phone as he checked with people about the status of trying to influence the rumor mill. He also stuttered as he spoke a few times, but Mark chose to ignore it. Carter kept looking at Henry, his idol, but Henry just told him to keep talking to Mark. The auburn-haired teen handled Carter beautifully, keeping him riveted to his sense of mission, reminding him of the task the Evans brothers had entrusted him with.

It was vaguely worrying that Carter, as connected as he was, had failed to suppress the story by now, especially when combined with all the other agents Henry and Mark had doing their bidding at this school. Even supposedly-loyal students were continuing to spread what they didn't realize was the truth, if only because it was, evidently, an intriguing story. Nicole Miles was somewhere around, but she was avoiding the Royal Table.

Henry refused to entertain thoughts that his and Mark's efforts to suppress the truth weren't working, at least not like they were supposed to. He had no intention of acknowledging that things weren't going his way, that for once, he wasn't instantly getting what he wanted. But deep down, it was nagging at him, and Henry didn't like that. His and Mark's will had been obeyed instantly all this time, even by life itself. So why not now?

The heavily-muscled blond had a hand possessively around Lisa's waist, gently massaging her smooth, suntanned belly. Inside was his baby, slowly growing, and Henry needed the worthless slut he was using as a vessel to eat. She was unhappy, constantly brooding and weeping about the "mistake" and wishing it hadn't happened. Henry had forced her into providing more oral sex than he normally required lately, just to shut her up.

But he had to act nice when he talked to her, play the role of the kind, romantic Henry. He could get away with slapping her or beating her normally, just enough that no bruises would show where people could see, but Henry knew how powerful he was and feared what he'd do to this girl if he lost his temper. Especially right now.

There was a nagging sense of something wrong in Henry's mind, of something he'd missed. Of course, it was Chris Marshal being alive. The kid barely knew it, but he was the first to escape alive in… forever. No one had ever gotten away before. That wasn't supposed to happen.

 _It wasn't_ meant _to happen_.

Henry knew he was infallible, literally incapable of making mistakes, and he knew Mark was the same way. Sure, Mark had slipped up and gotten Julie Michaels pregnant on Halloween, a totally unplanned event with major consequences. And now Chris had gotten away, an equally-unplanned event that threatened to do worse still.

 _He wasn't supposed to get away. He isn't even supposed to be alive right now. I can't make mistakes. I made Mark into who he is, I CREATED who he is by tricking him into going to the house! I can't MAKE MISTAKES!_

"Henry," Lisa whined. "Henry, you're _hurting me_!"

Without realizing it, Henry had tightened his grip and was putting a white-knuckled vise on Lisa's lower stomach. His heart leapt into his throat, and Henry allowed genuine fear and worry to show as he pretended to be apologetic. Lisa had still only conceived the baby not even a month ago, but she was pregnant now and Henry hadn't meant to be so careless.

"Oh, my- oh, shit, Lisa!" he exclaimed. "I'm so sorry, babe." He immediately released his grip, replaced his hand and resumed massaging Lisa's belly. "I'm sorry, Liz. I was thinking about- something else."

"It's okay," Lisa said right away.

"Babe, can you eat? Come on, open up. Your appetite just hasn't been the same lately."

"I'm trying to stay on my diet," Lisa insisted weakly.

"But you gotta eat, babe," Henry said gently. "Come on, take some more yogurt. It's good for you."

Henry didn't mention what she really needed to be eating for, but Lisa knew. Thanks to Henry getting her pregnant, she had a kid growing in her, and that meant she needed even more nutrients than usual. The baby needed its mother to provide it with food. Once Lisa gave birth, Henry would take Richard away and figure out how to get Julie Michaels to adopt him, and Lisa would get dumped in short order, having served her purpose.

 _But for now I need her to fucking_ eat _!_

Just when Henry thought he was really gonna lose it, Lisa turned her head and accepted the spoonful of yogurt, and let Henry feed her the rest of the cup, then some grapes, then some corn dog nuggets. Henry nodded, pleased and satisfied. His baby- and it was his, not Lisa's at all- was going to be fine so long as he kept Lisa eating.

"Henry, are you busy?"

"Whaddya want, Jason?" Henry asked, not taking his eyes off Lisa's tits. He considered himself the owner of whatever girl he was dating at the moment, and until he threw his latest toy away, he was fucking well gonna get his money's worth.

"I'd like to apologize for yesterday, the way I acted. I was outta line."

That got Henry's attention, and that of the whole table. Jason _never_ apologized!

"What's got into you, Jason?" Mark asked suspiciously. "Yesterday you were bitching about Henry putting Tony there in his place."

"Well, that's just it," Jason went on, nodding. "You see, uh- I thought about it and realized my mistake. Henry…" Jason tensed up and didn't continue, which just annoyed Henry in all kinds of ways.

"Would you get on with it?" Henry sneered. "You look like you're about to fuckin' puke."

Jason laughed nervously. "No, uh, I'm okay. It's just that, uh, I don't say this stuff much, you know?"

"Yeah, I know you don't," Henry returned. "And for four years I've been putting up with you wanting to be where me and Mark are. You basically had it stamped on your forehead."

"Hey, come on, man!" Jason said, looking defensive… and maybe a little scared.

Seeing that had an oddly calming effect on Henry. Realizing the tension was scaring Lisa helped some more. Not because Henry gave a shit about her, but because he wanted her calm, as happy as he could make her, and well-fed all through her pregnancy. His son was depending on it.

"Alright, whatever," Henry said, keeping his arm around Lisa's waist.

Henry moved his left hand to where where he imagined the baby was, and marveled again at his own manliness, the sheer sexual prowess he had. He'd wanted to put a baby in Lisa, and so he did. It had been that easy.

"Look," Jason said, "I just- basically, I wanted to say straight up that I think you're the shit, Henry, and I just wanted to shake your hand." Jason held his hand out.

"You better include my brother in that," Henry warned.

"I was gonna shake his hand, too."

"Good." Henry managed a smile. "Well, Henry and Mark are the shit, huh? Well, what took you so long to say it, asshole?"

Jason laughed. "Come on. Let's make it official." He held his hand up again.

"Whatever," Henry said. He sat up and reached for Jason's hand, meaning to just give it a shake, but Jason suddenly went white as a ghost and said something like "Oh, Jesus." And what was Tony doing, flying out of the cafeteria like that?

"Hey, Tony!" Mason Sarkozy called after him. "Where you going, man? Did you eat something funny?"

"Fuck," Jason managed to say. He did manage to shake Henry's hand for a moment, but quickly let it go and stood up. "I-I gotta go- puke. Can- go- puke?"

"Well, _fucking_ _go_ , then!" Henry shouted suddenly, drawing even more eyes to the Royal Table. "You don't have to fucking _ask_ me! _The hell's the matter with you?!_ "

"Henry," Mark said in warning tones, setting a hand on his shoulder. "Easy, easy."

Henry wanted to go on shouting. That fucking unnerving sense of things unraveling, going wrong after all this time of unlimited, unbroken success, was not going away and Henry found it disturbing. The very realization that he was losing control, that cold, disciplined, scientific Henry Evans was slipping was also scaring him, and in turn making him wanting to flip out even more.

But Mark was right. Henry knew he was. Mark was a father now, a dad! Maybe that was what was helping Mark stay so calm despite Chris Marshal having gotten away, at least for now. Maybe Mark was already trying to mature some more so he could be ready once Alexander started walking and talking. It was amazing to think about. Marvelous. Mark, the former cowardly goody-two shoes, raped a girl and impregnated his hot chemistry teacher on the same night. Even Henry couldn't have seen that coming back in '93.

So, Henry took in a breath, let it out again. "Okay. Sure." He forced a laugh. "Guess _some_ one ate the wrong kinda Pop Tarts this morning, huh?"

Mark laughed, too, and of course everyone else at the table- everyone else even within earshot- followed the brothers' lead. Talk circled for a while over the subject of what in the hell Jason and Anthony ate that made them both have to run to the toilet like that, but Henry quit listening. Within two minutes of the two morons' departure, he was already sweet-talking Lisa into eating more food.

 **XX**

Jason was losing his mind. He was going insane. Suddenly, for no reason at all, reality itself was slipping and Jason Morgan was just plain old losing his fucking mind.

It had to be. What else could be happening?

The heavily-muscled teen made a horrible retching noise and vomited a second time, then a third, but by then he was just dry-heaving, the first time he hadn't done it because of heavy drinking. In the stall next door, Tony was crying helplessly, like a child. He'd done his vomiting, and now the next stage had set in, the weeping out of sheer terror.

Any other time and place, Jason would have wondered what the fuck was going on to make his friend act so weak. But not now. From his seat, Tony had evidently gotten to see when Henry extended his hand, and as he had been about to shake hands with Henry, Jason saw.

He saw.

There was a burn mark in the shape of a cross on Henry's hand.

 **XX**

Chris was asleep in his bed, at home, a thing he never imagined he'd get to do again. On Sunday night, running alone through that terrible house, home had never seemed farther away. Just seeing his room again had made Chris break down. He couldn't help it. He was so relieved. He knew his mind wasn't entirely right, that the incident he'd survived had been severely traumatizing.

The realization was starting to set in that the inhuman, disembodied voice in that dream phone had been right. Even though he'd left the house, Chris would never leave the house. He'd always be there, trying to get away, trying, trying, trying…

"NO!" Chris screamed, rebelling at the very idea. He'd been trapped in a closet, and Mark and Henry were banging on it with their fists, laughing, taking their time about breaking in. Then Chris looked around, saw the room around him.

It was a dream. Another goddamned… fucking… dream.

"Chris! Chris, honey!"

Laura Marshal was in the bedroom in seconds, and Chris, feeling unusually modest about himself, hastily pulled his favorite blanket over his bare upper torso. At least he hadn't wet himself again. "Sorry, Mom," Chris said, feeling ashamed. "I-I had a bad dream."

"I thought so, but-" Mom sighed anxiously. "Those boys are out there, and they're free- I just- maybe I should keep the shotgun out."

"I'm sorry I scared you, Mom," Chris said sincerely. "I just had a bad dream."

"You've been through- I don't know what," Mom said, struggling with herself. "Don't be ashamed, honey. Don't be. Cry all you need to."

"When's Dad coming back?"

"It should be soon. I left a message with the company, and they said they'd make it a priority to get through to the ship, but other than that… a week or two, most likely. I wish it was sooner."

The doorbell rang, and Chris panicked for a moment until he realized Henry and Mark would probably not be using the door. Unless they were going to pretend all was well until Mom let them in! Panic threatened to overwhelm Chris, but he forced it back down with effort.

"I think my friends are here," Chris said, willing himself to relax.

"Oh, Jason and Anthony?" Mom asked, and Chris nodded.

The red-haired teen focused on breathing, on reminding himself where he was, and that he was safe. His mind needed a lot of reminders now. It frightened Chris very badly that he often woke up not knowing where he was. He was scared of the dark, too, in ways he'd never been. The nurses had learned to leave at least a lamp in his room on, because otherwise Chris' terrified screams threatened to wake everyone else on his hallway in the hospital.

Chris managed to look calm enough on the outside, however, that Mom was okay with leaving him alone as she went to check the door. Chris nervously groped for his pocket knife, an awkward thing to have to do with his left hand. If Henry and Mark were out there, and they were about to force their way in, then Chris was already going to die, helpless and crippled, but damn it, he'd at least try to stick one of them first!

"Well, good afternoon, boys!" Laura Marshal said as Chris heard her open the door. He didn't relax until he heard Jason's distinctive baritone voice say, "Hey, Mrs. Marshal. Is Chris here now?"

"We'd love to see him," Tony Summers added.

"Guys! I'm upstairs! Come on in!" Chris shouted, suddenly feeling energized, even happy. "I made it home, guys! I'm alive!"

"Chris!" Jason shouted back. Mom must have let them in, because the two muscular teens came thundering into the house and up the stairs.

"Hey, man!" Jason exclaimed, shaking Chris by the left hand. "Have I ever told you how honest you are? How fuckin' honest you really are?"

"The Lord never raised a more truthful servant," Anthony pronounced, sounding more like the altar boy he might (once) have been than the promiscuous playboy he was now.

The two guys carried on like that for a while, fussing over Chris and saying nice things about him, coming back time and again to how honest he was, while Mom stood in the background out in the hallway, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. Oh, she was just gonna love Jason and Tony forever after this.

That was just fine, because if he made it through this alive, Chris was set on making Tony and Jason the best men at his wedding.

Chris strongly suspected that Jason and Tony had gotten their proof, but after everybody calmed down and Mom retreated to the kitchen to make some sandwiches, he got the answer directly.

"Did you guys see it?" Chris asked the second they were alone, unable to help himself. "Did you see his hand?"

"Yeah," Jason said.

"We both saw it," Tony added.

Chris sighed in relief and started to say more, but Jason held up a hand. "I can't talk about it right now, and neither can Tony. I'm-" he hesitated, glanced at the door, then lowered his voice. "I'm fuckin' scared, all right? So if I think about it I might go crazy or something, so tell me. What's the plan?"

Chris thought for a moment. "What'd you tell people at school?"

"Seeing that burn mark scared the shit out of us, man. Once we stopped puking, we just left," Tony said. "I was sick. We both were. But we got it together and we headed straight here in the Expedition."

"Did Henry and Mark notice anything? Anything at all?"

"No," Jason answered. "Henry just yelled at us to leave. He didn't want us puking on the table."

"What would you need to torch a big fucking house?" Chris asked suddenly. "Gas, propane? A lotta fucking matches?"

"All three wouldn't be bad," Tony said thoughtfully. "I got a coupla road flares, a cherry bomb I was saving for college-"

"How long would you need to get a bunch of gasoline, some propane tanks, some more road flares and the cherry bomb?" Chris asked. "Can you get a flare gun? We could use it to set the whole thing off."

"Jesus, the pyromania," Jason muttered, laughing a little. "Well, Henry and Mark are gonna hate this, right? Like, it'll be bad if we burn down their haunted house, or something?"

"Like you wouldn't believe. They said it's where all their power comes from. I dunno if you believe that, but, you saw Henry's hand, so…"

"After lunch I think I can believe a lot," Jason said quietly. "Okay. Tony, let's go run some errands."

"How are we gonna get me out of here?"

Tony smiled. "Would either of you guys believe me if I told you a girl I used to date is working at the precinct Chris' car is impounded at? And that I called her last night and asked her to tell me if the name Evans was mentioned around the precinct for any reason?"

"What are you saying?" Chris asked.

"I'm saying some State Police detective called Parola is planning on bringing the Evans brothers in for questioning this afternoon."

"Seriously?"

Tony the class playboy had disappeared. In his place was Tony the fighter, the sleuth. A look of such absolute seriousness had come over his face that Chris was momentarily shocked, amazed that so stern an expression could be on the face of the guy who never took anything too seriously. Tony, for his part, just met Chris' gaze evenly and just said, "Does it look like I'm joking?"

"Wait a minute, wait a minute," Jason said suddenly. He closed the door, but being denied the ability to see who or what was outside upset Chris so much that he quickly opened it again. Jason looked at Chris for a moment, visibly troubled, then crossed his arms over his chest.

"Guys, if Henry and Mark are going in for questioning maybe it's already over. Maybe the cops came up with some shit and they're just getting 'em down there on an excuse so they can cuff 'em. We could just sit here, wait for the word that they got busted, and then me and Tony will move in and take over tomorrow."

"Already thinking of how this is gonna benefit you? Seriously? After those two almost murdered Chris?" Tony demanded.

"I'm thinking of how this is gonna benefit all _three_ of us," Jason said, gesturing at himself, Tony, and Chris. "Those two go down, nobody's got the status we do. We move quick and spin some story about how we found out and told the cops, and we'll be fuckin' heroes!"

Chris saw then how much Jason really wanted this, how badly he needed to put a dagger in Henry and Mark's back. And while Chris would be happy to see it happen, he wasn't much at ease with Jason going from nervous to ambitious… and greedy.

Jason seemed to take the silence of the other two boys as agreement, or at the very least, interest. "These last few weeks, that school could be ours!" he said, looking intently at them.

"I don't want the school," Chris protested.

"Yeah, well, I do, and I'm gonna fuckin' get it," Jason shot back. "I didn't let those two assholes fuck me over all this time just to let _this_ chance pass me by!"

"Jason," Tony said, the warning clear in his voice. "That's enough."

Chris was uncomfortable with Jason's sudden shift in mood, and it showed on his face. Tony didn't like it, either, and he folded his arms imposingly over his chest and stared hard at Jason, not moving or speaking.

"What? What's wrong with what I said?" Jason asked. "I said it- I _meant_ all three of us, okay?"

"I just wanna stay alive, man," Chris said quietly.

"What about taking Henry and Mark's place? You challenged Henry at the gym back in the fall because you wanted to be a big shot. I could see it all over your face-"

"Let's not talk about what's all over your face, Jason."

Tony cracked up then, and Jason sputtered indignantly, making some noises that sounded like threats and insults. The tension in the room eased off after that, and Chris was able to get to the single most important thing on his mind.

"We can't wait, guys. Burning Fleetwood Hall down has to happen now. Today. Why not right while they're down there at the station? They won't even know until the place is already gone."

"You don't think the cops are gonna arrest them?" Tony asked.

Chris thought for a few moments. "I don't think they have enough evidence, even if they believe me. And those two are smart. You know how smart they are. Unless there's enough hard evidence that they t-tried to k-kill m-m-me…" Chris struggled with it, felt himself trembling as he tried to go on. _I'm safe, I'm alive_. He repeated that a few times in his mind, and it seemed to help. Jason and Tony both looked concerned when he looked up, but didn't actually say anything.

"You were saying?" Jason asked, when Chris forgot to continue.

"It- I don't think it'll be enough. We have to take away the place where they get… whatever power they have. Maybe it'll weaken them somehow."

"Make them impotent?" Tony asked speculatively.

"I don't think whether they can get it up is gonna make any fuckin' difference!" Jason shot back.

Chris started laughing again, and that made him feel a lot better, but then pain jolted through him from his cracked ribs and he changed his mind. Before the boys could argue any more over it, Mom came in with sandwiches, and Chris gratefully consumed three roast beef and cheese sandwiches before he even noticed the other two were supposed to be for Jason and Tony.

"Um, hey, Mom?" he called. "I ate the sandwiches."

" _All_ of them?"

"Yeah…"

"Goodness, well, I'm glad you're hungry, anyway!" Mom appeared in the doorway with a basket full of laundry. "Jason, Tony, you boys can make yourselves useful and fold Chris' laundry while I get some more sandwiches ready."

"Aw, Mrs. Marshal," Jason whined. "I just stuff it in my dresser half the time!"

That earned him a steely glare that made Jason Morgan, so strong and muscular he could probably have bench-pressed Mom without breaking a sweat, drop his eyes and shuffle his feet awkwardly.

"I'll fold his laundry," Jason mumbled.

"What was that, Jason Morgan?"

"I'm on it, ma'am."

"That's better. I'll be back soon, you boys keep Chris company."

"Mom, can my bodyguards take me out to- the movies, or something?"

Now the glare was for Chris. "You, Christopher, are not going anywhere."

"But Mom!"

"You have a broken arm, cracked ribs, and just had a near-death experience. Two boys at your school tried to murder you, are out there free, and you want to just go out and see a _movie_?"

It actually did sound pretty loony, now that Chris thought about it. But he had a good reason! He needed to haul himself out of bed, no matter how many aches and pains he had all over, no matter how easily he fell asleep if he was sitting anyplace comfortable for as much as a minute. His body was still exhausted and his mind was in a state of constant terror and paranoia, but that house had-to-go.

"Can I just ride in Tony's car for a while? Like, a half-hour? I can roll the window down and I'll just… breathe…"

Chris felt himself start to tremble, and he sucked in a breath sharply. Breathing was such a big fucking deal now. Going for a ride in a car and simply breathing in the fresh air coming in through the window was something he'd always loved doing as a kid, and now, he wanted very badly to do it again.

Nothing made you appreciate just being alive like realizing you might not be alive for much longer.

Mom looked at Chris as the teen fought to get control of himself, and Chris felt a little ashamed because while his emotions were in an uproar and any number of things could set him off and get him crying or shaking or just plain scared, he was trying to deceive his mother. Chris wanted to go off and attack this fucking haunted mansion, and he might, honestly, never come back if the house had time to respond.

And if Henry and Mark showed up, Jason and Tony would die, too, meaning Chris' plan would have cost them everything.

 _Are you really ready to risk that? Are you ready to see your friends die knowing you could have just played it safe and maybe saved them? And how about you? Are you ready to risk losing the life you just got back?_

Chris hated it, but he was ready to risk that. He was, because the alternative was worse. Henry and Mark were going to slip out of the cops' grasp, even if the cops didn't want to let them go. And when they did, they would come after Chris. They'd figure out that Jason and Tony had chosen to side with Chris and were now actively engaged in protecting him, and then they'd be in danger as well. The Evans brothers couldn't just kill everyone, but if they just needed to bump off three boys who'd crossed them…

No. They had to act _now_ , and do what they could. There was no choice. Lying to Mom was a small crime if it meant protecting her, Tony, Jason, and himself.

"Chris? Honey, can you hear me?"

"What?" Chris asked, jumping a little.

"I said, if it'll help, and you're gone exactly half an hour at most… I guess I can let you go. If it'll help. And if your friends will protect you."

"Strictly speaking, ma'am, I don't think it'll come to that," Tony observed. "Henry and Mark Evans don't know we know about what they did, and they're probably expecting Chris to still be in the hospital. And they can't just try something in public."

"But if anything happens we've got his back," Jason added. Tony nodded to show his agreement.

"Half an hour," Mom told them. "Will it help, honey? This makes me really nervous but- I trust you. Maybe getting out a little will do you some good. Will it help, do you think?"

"Yes, Mom," Chris said, already thinking of how he'd go for that ride after Jason and Tony came back from their "errands"… Chris nodded, and even managed a smile. "I think that'll help a lot."

 **XX**

Susan and Wallace had each taken some time off on Tuesday. They were a little overwhelmed at the news that had just hit their family. The boys sure weren't kids like they used to be. A brief talk had confirmed each of them was sexually active, and had been for a while. The talk wasn't meant to bother the boys, and Wallace and Susan had stressed that. They had just needed to know.

They'd also been speaking to Mr. and Mrs. Doyle. The four of them were going to be grandparents now, whether they wanted it or not. It helped to have both sets of parents talking to each other at least. The children were both staying calm, dealing with it remarkably well. Lisa was struggling with morning sickness, however, and the shock of getting pregnant was still troubling her as well.

Henry, for his part, was keeping his best "macho guy" face up. An immensely physically and mentally tough boy, he disliked admitting anything that even hinted at weakness. Only to Mark would he ever readily admit he needed help. When Susan or Wallace asked him how he felt about the pregnancy, Henry would say something like "I just hope Lisa's okay," or "I should've been more careful" and then change the subject. It seemed to embarrass him to talk about it with his parents.

Some parts of the story had to be learned, however, and in answering some private questions Henry had said he didn't often wear a condom, that he tended to forget to, and while he usually had his partners take birth-control pills, that hadn't worked on Prom Night. Susan had wanted to say that if Henry had been more careful maybe this wouldn't have happened, but she couldn't let herself go that far. Henry was having a hard enough time as it was. Saying something like that would not make it any better for him, and it wasn't like Henry wouldn't have thought of it by now.

Moreover, it would upset Mark to see even a hint of Henry being blamed or criticized, especially if he thought it was unfair. The tragedies that hit the family in 1993-1994 had bonded the two so closely that they regarded each other's problems as more important than their own. Susan respected that and had no intention of putting more stress or worry on the boys than they already had.

"So what do you think about Henry's idea?" Wallace asked, sitting down beside Susan on the living room couch.

"Oh, well…" Susan stirred her tea, thinking for a few moments. "I guess there's really nothing else we can do. Adoption… It's either that, or he marries her. Lisa's- oh, that poor girl. She loves Henry, but she isn't ready to be a mother. Anybody can see that. And Henry's looking forward to going to the Naval Academy with Mark in the fall. He can't be a father right now."

"You actually have to be unmarried to go to one of the service academies anyway," Wallace said. "I remember hearing that years back, and I'm sure it's still a rule they have."

"So, all we can really do is make sure Henry knows this isn't his fault. And Lisa- we'll just need to try to make this as easy as we can on her."

"Maybe we should have talked more with the boys. They kind of got started with sleeping with girls without any guidance from us."

"We raised them right, Wallace," Susan said gently. "We trusted them. We didn't go wrong in trusting the boys. We couldn't have been there every second."

"I know," Wallace said. "But they're- they're good-looking, both of 'em. That's a heck of a way to go into adolescence, with girls trying to get your attention, left and right. I think we were so intimidated by how well they were doing, that we just left them alone and figured they'd be fine."

"We didn't just cast them adrift, Wallace. We were there for them. We told them what they needed to know and made sure they knew to be safe. They're old enough to make these decisions."

"Yeah, I guess so," Wallace sighed. "I just wish it hadn't happened. I mean, I know Henry'll make a great dad one of these days. Mark, too. This was just too soon."

"At least we all know, thanks to Lisa," Susan said. "It would've been even harder if we hadn't found out until Henry was already started at Annapolis. At least this way, he has time to deal with it."

"Yes, and we'll make sure he knows we're still with him," Wallace said. "We're not gonna turn our backs on Henry."

"It seems like yesterday he was still fighting with Mark," Susan said, smiling. "You remember how they were buddies one minute and enemies the next?"

"I remember," Wallace said, nodding. "Then one day they just sorted it all out. Boys are like that."

"It would've been great if they could've just stayed twelve forever," Susan said, smiling fondly.

"It would've been perfect," Wallace said, smiling as well. "That's what we should've talked to them about, never growing up."

Susan was about to say something else when the phone rang. Husband and wife looked at each other curiously. Then Wallace reached over to the wireless set that was on the end table near him. "Hello?"

Wallace suddenly frowned and said, "Is there a problem?" A pause. "You need to talk to Henry and Mark? Yes, I'll tell them. All right, thank you."

Susan looked at her husband, confused. "What is it?"

"Detective Emory Parola with the State Police says he needs Henry and Mark to come in for questioning."

"Wasn't he the man who was here before? Asking around about that accident up on-"

"Yes, that was him," Wallace said. "I don't really know what he wants now, though. He was kind of vague about that. Just said it was important."

"Shouldn't he tell us what he wants if he wants us to bother the boys about it, especially at a time like this?"

"I think he should, but he said they aren't looking to arrest them. It's just questioning in relation to an investigation." Wallace shrugged. "Maybe he thinks they can help as witnesses to something the State Police are looking into."

"Do you really think we should tell the boys to go down to- where did he want them to go?"

"The local police station. He says he'll be down there waiting for them this afternoon."

"I don't know if we should, Wallace. They're so busy, and Henry's under a lot of strain right now."

"There's no harm in them answering some questions," Wallace said. "Hopefully it'll help them catch someone who deserves to be caught. Maybe that's what it is, and they can't tell us too much for fear of compromising their investigation."

"I hope you're right, Wallace. All right, let's tell them when they get home."

* * *

 **A/N: 9-10-2018.**

 **Update 9-11-2018.**

 **Got another chapter done over the weekend. My goal is to cap all chapters at about 8-9K, and this one came to just over 8,600, which is fine since I'd reached a good stopping point.**

 **Things are coming to a head, or will soon enough. Chris has reached a pivotal moment in his efforts now that he's got both Detective Parola and now Jason and Anthony convinced. Best of all for him, and worst of all for his would-be murderers, Henry and Mark don't know that those three people know.**

 **I referenced the 2008 video game** _ **Bully**_ **in this chapter. Jason Morgan saying "That school could be ours", the dialogue immediately after are from a conversation between Gary Smith and Jimmy Hopkins. Jason is no less ambitious and vain than Gary, and now that he is starting to realize Henry and Mark may very well have irreversibly screwed the pooch at last, he is obsessed with the idea of seizing power and taking Henry and Mark's place. That's where he has always wanted to be, and years of bitterness and resentment at being sidelined are driving Jason to rapidly turn from actual, heartfelt concern over his friend Chris to an avaricious plan to "take over the school."**

 **Jason Morgan does genuinely care about Chris and Anthony, but he's enough of a superficial, self-obsessed jerk that he can't stop thinking about taking Henry and Mark's place now that he's realized he just might be able to after all. Even if the year is almost over, it doesn't matter; one week or one day as the big man on campus would be entirely worth it to him.**

 **Feedback is welcomed, and if you notice any corrections or improvements I can make feel free to mention those in a review or a PM.**

 **My sincere thanks to AM83220, fear2breathe, and phorosz for being my most loyal readers with all my "The Good Son" work.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

* * *

Julie Michaels was sitting in the sun-lit living room of her house when she heard the garage door go rattling up, informing her she had a certain visitor. She smiled to herself; a text message sent by that certain visitor earlier in the day had prompted her to make sure she was wearing one of her bathrobes and nothing else when she brought little Alex downstairs.

Alex himself took no interest in the garage door opening and then closing again; he was greedily drawing milk from one of Julie's breasts. Ever since his health had taken that miraculous turnaround, Alex seemed to be actively fighting to become stronger and healthier, like he'd had a talk with Mark about it. Of course, his fascination with Julie's chest was something his dad shared… Julie found herself hoping Alex would grow up to be as much of an athlete and ladies' man as Mark, but preferably without fathering a child in 12th grade. The stress of that had been hard even on Mark, and Julie didn't want to see their boy go through the same thing.

Of course, little Alex was quite a few years from any concerns like that! He was a growing, happy baby and that was enough. Julie was delighted at how well he was doing, and inwardly, she was already thinking of a few years from now when she and Mark would officially become a couple, marry, and… oh, the babies. Julie still didn't know how many Mark wanted, but she knew Mark was simply not going to want just one. Little Alex might wind up with half a dozen brothers and half a dozen sisters, if his parents' sexual appetites remained where they were.

"He's really something, isn't he?"

Julie looked up and saw Mark, bare-chested and stunning, standing in the doorway to her kitchen, his shirt in one hand. Mark was smiling, an expression that looked so natural on his handsome face.

"He is," Julie agreed. "He takes after his dad."

"His mom is amazing, too," Mark said, coming over and sitting down next to Julie. "Blow me."

"What?" Julie asked, a little startled.

"He's done feeding for now; he just stopped. Let me hold him, and you blow me."

Julie laughed a little, thinking it was a joke, but Mark sighed. "Julie, I just had a long day at school. I'd like to relax and hold my son. And you give amazing head, seriously. I've had a lot of girls do that for me but none of 'em did it better than you."

Mark was demanding and charming at the same time, like always. Julie wasn't entirely okay with performing sexual acts with Mark in front of their baby, but she knew how stressful school was for Mark. Especially since, unlike his friends, he had a baby to raise and worry about, and nobody could even know. It wasn't Mark's fault he'd fallen in love with his teacher.

So Julie gently handed Alex off to Mark, and was pleased to see the infant happily nestle into the cradle Mark created between two bulging, powerful biceps. The heat generated by Mark's chest had to be pleasant to Alex, because he was starting to doze off as Julie got on her knees, pulled Mark's shorts down, and got to work.

 **XX**

Henry sighed as he got out of his Hummer, reaching for his pack. He needed to relax. He was probably going to have to pick up another regular partner on the side, because Lisa was just not up for it like she used to be. Getting pregnant had made her all weepy and shit, always wanting to talk and be held, and Henry honestly could've cared less. But he was stuck playing the role, which pissed him off. So, another girlfriend it was. Behind the scenes, of course.

 _It isn't like I can't do it_ , Henry thought, getting out a Camel and lighting it up. _I got enough girls who want me back, they'd probably die before telling anyone I was cheating on Lisa with them. Ninety percent of the girls in this school are whores, they don't care. Shit, I could pick up a freshman or two if I wanted to, but they're usually virgins and their tits aren't the best. Whatever. I'll make some calls later_.

Mark was right, as he usually was, and Henry knew his brother was right. That's precisely why he was going to make those calls and get himself another girl. He needed more than Lisa was giving. The stress of the problems going on was too much. Mark was feeling it, too, which was why he was over at Julie's, visiting his boy and fucking his hot teacher.

Henry was going to kill time for a little while, maybe make those calls he was thinking about, until Mark came back and they lifted weights. They'd probably go to Fleetwood Hall after dinner. It seemed like it was about time they went home and put some more thought into what they were going to do.

Obviously, Chris Marshal had to die. Nicole Miles, the whore he was dating, had caused her share of trouble and then some by apparently doing a hell of a lot to spread the truth about Henry and Mark and what they'd almost done. Jason Morgan and Anthony Summers were stupid motherfuckers, and they had too much of a soft spot for Chris. If they hadn't picked his side yet, they soon would. An accident for each of them was probably best.

Naturally what Mark wanted to do was just slaughter them all as quickly and violently as possible. It matched with his fiery, excitable nature, and of course that was a hell of a lot of fun. Henry knew that if he and Mark had wanted to, they could have made the 'massacre' at Columbine look like nothing. But Henry also knew there was no going back from that. A slaughter would be the end of the brothers' freedom.

And nothing frightened Henry and Mark more than the idea of being found out and losing their freedom.

Henry took a deep drag on his cigarette, let it out, and proceeded to smoke that thing down to the filter, all the while telling himself he wasn't in trouble, he hadn't fucked up by playing with his food, and that no one, fucking _no one_ , was ever going to put him in 'one of those places'.

 **XX**

The front door opened up, and Henry, tall, strong and handsome in his black KISS t-shirt and a pair of designer khaki shorts (and a new white pair of Nikes) walked in, pocketing his Camels as he did so. Susan still felt a bit of shock at seeing her little Henry smoking, and she wished he would stop, but she and Wallace had decided a while ago not to bother the boys about it unless it started affecting their extremely active lives.

But, for some reason, it never had. Two varsity sports and constant running and weightlifting and not a peep from either of them about shortness of breath, or anything. It just never seemed to be slowing the boys down, so Susan and Wallace left it alone. The boys were also quite courteous about only smoking outside, and they never did so around Susan or Wallace when the family went out.

And besides, there were bigger problems to worry about right now.

Henry started to smile in greeting to Susan, but something about her and Wallace's inner worry must have showed, because Henry's face suddenly went blank. His crisp blue eyes, wary and guarded, flicked from his mother to his father and back again.

"What's going on?" Henry asked.

"Well, nothing is, Henry," Wallace began carefully. "Not really. But we did get a call from a gentleman with the Maine State Police-"

"Who was it?"

"He said he was Detective Emory Parola."

Henry took a step forward, his eyes blazing. Towering over his parents, the very picture of physical power, Henry looked quite terrifying. "That motherfucker, what was it _this_ time? I'll-"

"You'll what, Henry?" Susan asked, afraid of the answer.

"Nothing," Henry said, sighing. He shook his head. "Okay, so what's it about? What's he want?"

"He said he wanted to talk to you and Mark. He said to make sure to say you're not in any trouble, but he'd like to ask you some questions down at the Portland Police station down on Main Street."

"And why the fuck should I do that? Mark's busy, I'm busy." Henry was breathing hard. "We got enough on our minds. Why should we bother with this?"

"Well, it's probably not even gonna take all that long," Wallace said reasonably. "You and Mark just get together, drive down to the station, answer some questions and be home in time for dinner."

"But what if I don't want to?"

"Henry, dear," Susan said cautiously, "I think it'd be better just to help the police out and answer some questions. We can go shopping this weekend, anyplace you want to go."

Henry considered that. "I want a third car. Mark gets one, too."

Wallace started to object then. As well-off as the family was, he wasn't eager to toss even more money at the family motor pool. "Henry-"

"How about we talk about it at dinner tonight?" Susan interjected. "After you and Mark answer a couple questions down at the station. How would that be?"

Henry looked like he wanted to refuse. For a moment, his hands opened and closed and he looked like he was going to explode at any second. But finally, Henry sighed, shrugged, rolled his eyes, a gesture of disrespect that neither Wallace nor Susan would have stood for years ago.

As it was, right now, they were willing to let Henry act like that without protest solely in the name of avoiding a showdown- especially since it was usually Mark who had trouble controlling his temper, not Henry.

"Okay, fine," Henry said, getting out his phone. "I'll call Mark and we'll get this over with."

"Thank you, Henry," Wallace said.

Henry grunted and flipped open his phone, picked Mark's number out of his contacts and dialed.

 **XX**

Maybe Henry wasn't the only one feeling stressed as hell right now. Maybe he was just the one showing it. Mark had spent a couple hours with Jessica at her place yesterday, and was now relaxing at Julie's, and he could still sense a lot of tension in the thick, heavy muscles that decorated his frame. After blowing Mark (very satisfactorily) in the living room downstairs, Julie had gone up to her bedroom with Mark to "have some fun" while Alex dozed in his downstairs crib.

He'd managed to do pretty damn well at disguising it, but Mark would have been pretty annoyed if Julie hadn't done everything he wanted today. Mark was in no mood to be refused, first of all, and Julie had only two functions: caring for Alex, and meeting Mark's physical needs. He had no interest in talking to her unless they'd already gone at it to Mark's satisfaction.

For the past hour, Mark had been going through one session after another, mostly male-dominant positions, like always. Mark needed control, was obsessed with it. But right now, he was lying on his back, hands behind his head, grinning as Julie rode him like a horse. She was doing her best to please him, almost desperate to do it like usual, and Mark had to admit she was doing a pretty good job.

Julie picked up speed with the humping as Mark's phone started going off, and the auburn-haired teen wasn't even sure it was his phone vibrating the first dozen times. Finally, motioning to Julie to continue, Mark impatiently reached down, clumsily dug his phone from the pocket of his discarded jean shorts, and opened it up.

"Yes?" he said with exaggerated courtesy, mostly because it was Henry's number on the screen.

"Mark, the cops wanna talk to us," Henry said without preamble. He sounded angry, fed up… and a little scared.

"Us?" Mark breathed, not sure if he'd heard right. "What about?"

"I don't know, but I guess we better go down there and get it over with."

"Man, fuck that, I'm fucking busy," Mark groaned. Oh, man, Julie was doing that thing with gyrating her hips again. She was gonna kill him.

"Mark, what're you even doing?"

"I said I'm fucking busy," Mark laughed, almost giggling like a kid.

"Mark," Julie said, leaning down and putting her arms around his neck, pressing her chest against his. "Tell your brother to give us a minute, huh?"

"Shh," Mark said, waving her off.

"Mark, will you stop fucking around and get down to the station? Hurry up with whatever you're doing and _go_ , will you?"

Henry was shouting by the time he finished speaking, and Mark waved impatiently as Julie stopped, looking at the phone with concern. "Keep going, keep going," he told her, then sat up a little. "Okay, Henry. Don't worry. I'll be there soon."

"I don't like this, Mark," Henry said. He paused, then added, "I'll see you soon. I love you."

"Love you, too," Mark replied, then snapped the phone shut and dropped it.

"What's going on?" Julie asked, looking down at the muscular adolescent with concern. "Is Henry okay?"

"He's fine," Mark grunted. "Everything's- fine. Just keep going, I wanna enjoy this."

It took some more coaxing from Mark, but Julie resumed and really got into it again, and Mark was extremely satisfied once he finished a couple minutes later. Julie really was an incredible lay. Unfortunately, lying there and just enjoying himself wasn't possible now. The pillow talk would have to wait for later. Mark was off the bed almost the second Julie climbed off him, and he pulled his underwear and shorts back on.

"Sorry," Mark grumbled. "I gotta get outta here. I'll be back, don't worry."

Julie looked at him uncertainly. "Everything's okay, isn't it, Mark?"

"Of course it is," Mark replied. "You know I've got it all under control. Have a nice shower, take another pill and I'll be back for round seven before you know it."

"How was round six?" Julie asked him, a coy look coming onto her face. That made Mark smile, too, because he sensed she was starting to buy the bullshit.

"Did you hear that noise I made?" Mark asked, taking her in his arms and kissing her. "I'm gonna blow you away when I come back," Mark promised, then stood up. "Okay, I'm outta here. I love you. See you soon."

Julie said something nice in reply, but Mark was already hurrying downstairs. He paused to carefully pick up Alex, who briefly opened his eyes and fussed about being disturbed during his nap.

"The cops wanna waste my and Uncle Henry's time," Mark whispered. "But we'll get away with it. They got nothing on us. I'll buy you some new toys this weekend." Mark kissed the baby on the forehead, and Alex giggled, seeming to enjoy the sensation. Mark's eyes grew moist, and he added, "I love you."

Then, with the utmost tenderness, Mark lowered his son back into the crib and carefully set a blanket back over him. Then he picked his red Nike t-shirt up, pulled it back on, and headed for the Silver Talon. Its engine kicked over immediately, promising a swift ride to the station with its lean, high-performance Mitsubishi engine.

Mark backed out, hit the button to close the garage again, then drove, wondering what the hell could have happened where the cops would have enough of an excuse to call him and Henry down to the station. If they thought they were going to trick the Evans boys into fessing up, they were even dumber than they looked, because Henry and Mark would lie their way out of it. If they planned on making an arrest, that was suicide, because Mark knew he'd rather die, and so would Henry.

Troubled at the idea that it had come to this- the cops sure couldn't be summoning Henry and Mark over unpaid parking tickets- Mark drove, lighting a cigarette as he did so just to calm his nerves. _It'll be over soon_ , Mark promised himself. _Just stay cool and lay on the bullshit. It's worked this far. Everything will blow over and it'll all be over soon._

XX

Henry was just getting out of his truck as Mark's Eagle Talon pulled up beside him. Henry had his pack out and was lighting up another cigarette just as Mark walked up to him.

"It's that detective again, isn't it?" Mark asked quietly. "That asshole from back in the winter?"

"Yeah, Parola," Henry nodded, exhaling.

"Think he's got anything?"

"I doubt it," Henry said with a confidence he didn't feel. "There's just no way. I mean, there's no fucking bodies."

"Except for, that one."

"We'll take care of him."

"After we take care of this."

"Yeah."

Mark got out a cigarette of his own. The two brothers smoked in silence for a few moments, just taking assurance from each other's company. "Just stay calm in there, Henry," Mark said gently. "Usually you have to tell me that but I guess it's my turn. Just keep it cool. We'll be fine."

"I know," Henry said. "I bet they're gonna try to bait us. These guys love that. If we don't give 'em anything they'll have to let us go." Henry tossed his Camel to the ground and ground it beneath his shoe. "Then go knife that stupid kid," he whispered.

"Easy," Mark said. "Think about that later. Not now." He shrugged his muscular shoulders. "What would our boys want us to do?"

"Be scientific," Henry said, smiling a little. "They need us to stay cool."

"Exactly. Now let's go in there and waste an hour of our lives."

Henry laughed.

 **XX**

Once they were inside, Henry and Mark exuded an air of casual arrogance and relaxed intimidation. They acted like they usually did- better than you, tougher than you, and fully aware of it. The other civilians eyed them with caution, knowing better than to mess with them, and even some of the cops looked wary of the two teen titans who'd just walked in.

Henry casually wandered up to the front desk and said to the sergeant there, "Here to see Detective Parola."

"Uh, what about?" the lady asked, looking up at them.

"I'm not aware, Sarge, but I'd be glad to help the State Police however I can."

It was total bullshit, delivered with Henry's usual class and smoothness, and it worked. It worked beautifully. The sergeant smiled and nodded. "Well, I'm not aware of any arrest warrants for Henry and Mark Evans, so we can cross that off the list, huh?"

"Oh, good," Mark said in mock relief, and all three laughed.

"Hey, listen, could you tell him we're here?" Henry said, leaning against the counter a little, letting his right bicep bulge and flex a little. "We'd really appreciate it."

The sergeant couldn't have been older than thirty, and she stared at Henry for a second before catching herself. "Uh- oh, yes. Certainly. Just, um, have a seat? Or… well, how much do you two weigh?"

"Three hundred, all muscle," Henry said proudly.

"Well. Uh- just stand there and I'll have him come up front."

"Sure," Henry said patiently.

Pressing an intercom button, the sergeant, whose nametag read LASZENSKI, said, "Detective Parola, Henry and Mark Evans just arrived to see you."

"I'm on my way," a man's voice said, not even a moment later.

Within a minute or so, a formally-dressed man with a State Police detective's badge hanging around his neck and a graying brown buzz cut came up to meet them. As he extended his hand to shake, Mark said, "Hey, you're Eddie Parola's dad, aren't you?"

"Not bad," the man answered, grinning. "Say, you two are pretty sharp. You thought about what you'd wanna do after college?"

Henry laughed, Mark laughed, the asshole detective laughed. Henry was glad they were all having a good fucking time, because he was looking forward to skinning Chris Marshal alive for all the trouble he'd caused. That stupid little virgin was sure as shit doing his best to cause problems for his would-be killers.

 _No, can't think about that now. Mark said. Keep it cool, cool. That kid'll get his later._

 **XX**

The detective led Henry and Mark into the station, down a long hallway and around a corner, where he opened a door that led to what was quite obviously an interrogation room. One chair was on one side of a metal table, bolted to the floor no less, and two chairs were on the other. The entire room was metal, cold metal, and Henry didn't like it.

But he controlled his expressions well, as did Mark, and the teen titans were the very picture of casual arrogance as they sat down across from Detective Parola. Henry was a little worried, but he didn't let it be seen. He had long ago mastered such things about himself.

"So, what do you wanna ask me?" Henry asked, bored, even amused. "My favorite color? Seriously, man. I don't know what this is about. But, uh, look. I'll help if I can. How about that?"

"That go for you, too, Mark?" Parola was going all-business now.

"Oh, yeah, man," Mark answered, stretching his muscular arms over his head. "I mean, I was literally having sex when Henry called me, so I kind of interrupted my plans for the afternoon. But, hey, I'm not mad."

"I would think you would be," Parola replied. "I mean, doesn't it make you angry that I messed up your afternoon? That wasn't my intention, but in this job you gotta do that sometimes."

"Well, it's not like you signed up just to ruin my day one afternoon," Mark said dismissively. "It's no big deal."

"You and your girlfriend going to reschedule things?"

"Sure we will. Like I said, no worries."

"Good," Parola said, giving a nod and a smile. "So, Henry, Mark. You boys were a lot of help when I asked you about that accident a few months back, and-"

"Did they ever find out who did it?" Mark asked, leaning forward. He looked curious, and Henry leaned forward too, making sure he showed interest as well.

"No, it's still under investigation," Parola answered. "But I wanted to ask you guys about something else."

"And what's that?" Henry asked.

"The recent attempted murder of Christopher David Marshal. Is that name familiar to you?"

"Wha- attempted murder?" Henry asked, his mouth agape. "Mark- you _believe_ this? Somebody tried to kill that kid! He's gotta be the most popular kid in the school!"

"Besides you and your brother."

"Well, yeah," Henry said, shrugging. "Seriously, someone tried to kill him?"

"They came pretty close, from what he said. He's been in the hospital since it happened."

"Well, how'd he get away?"

"Drove his car like a bat out of hell down to this station."

"Where from?" Mark asked curiously.

"Fleetwood Hall, biggest of the old mansions on the northwest side of town."

"That place always did give me the creeps," Mark said, shivering. "First time I saw it, I thought- man, I thought it was watching me. Like, it was alive, and it could see me. Place just spooks me."

"Oh, me, too, believe you me," Parola laughed. "Like nobody's business. Creeps Eddie out, too. He never liked even going on walks past it."

"Kids always said it was haunted," Henry recalled from when he was growing up. Before he discovered the place, before he used it to save Mark.

"You know, that's one of two things I don't get about this case," Parola said thoughtfully. He paused to take off his dress coat then, turning around to place it on his chair. He was wearing a Glock pistol at his right hip, and Henry suspected he wanted him and Mark to see it.

Show me whatever you want, jackass, Henry thought with amusement, annoyance, and contempt. Mark and I are way more dangerous than that gun.

"What's that?" Mark asked.

"Well, so happens Chris Marshal- he didn't say it was haunted, but he looked like it."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm saying there was blood and piss and sweat all over him when he came in the front door with a broken arm and a smashed up car, and passed out in front of Sergeant Powell. All of it his. And he's showing all the signs of post-traumatic stress disorder, a good dose of it from what the doctors tell me. If that kid didn't find one hell of a real haunted house when he went there Sunday night, I wanna know what because he seems like a real good kid and he's scared out of his wits."

"That's a shame," Henry said, shaking his head. "Poor kid. We invited him to sit at our table at lunch, you know? Back in the fall. He's really made an impression on us."

"Yeah, I hope he comes outta this okay," Mark agreed.

"And that leads me to the other thing," Parola said.

"What is it?" Henry asked.

"He mentioned both of you."

"Like how?" Mark shrugged.

"He says you two lured him inside that place and tried to kill him."

 **XX**

Chris, much to his surprise, was able to make it out of the house and to Tony's giant Expedition on his own. Granted, he had two broad-shouldered bodyguards flanking him practically the whole way, plus Mom nagging him to death about being careful. But other than that, he did it all by himself.

Once he got there, however, Chris quickly admitted he needed help getting in. Tony opened the door for him, and Jason practically picked the redhead up and lifted him into the back right passenger seat.

"Aw, I didn't know you cared, Jason," Chris remarked, smiling.

"Eat my dick, asshole," Jason replied with a smile of his own, in a voice too low for Mom to hear it.

Mom came out to look at Chris up close, as if making sure he was indeed healthy enough. She didn't seem entirely convinced.

"I'm all right, Mom," Chris assured her, desperate to get this show on the road before Henry and Mark either left the police station and started looking for him, or Mom maybe got a whiff of the fifty-three gallons of gasoline that Jason and Tony had stocked the back of the SUV with in ten 5.3-gallon cans. There were also about a dozen road flares, plus Tony's cherry bomb, and a marine flare gun.

If you asked Tony, it was enough to "party in New Jersey," or "really fuck shit up," as Jason said it.

Either way, that much gasoline was more than going to start a fire, and if that fucking house had moaned and groaned when Chris torched a rug and a few drapes, he just could not wait to see how it liked this!

"Chris!"

"Oh, I- I just spaced out," Chris said, smiling at his visibly-worried mother. His heart was pounding in his chest, and his weary body, with its many aches and pains, was telling him to go back inside. That this, what he was about to do, was way too close to rolling into battle with nothing but a broken arm and two friends, and that was bad, bad shit.

 _I gotta do this._

"Honey, do you really need to go right now? Maybe you should come inside and give it another day or two."

"Aw, c'mon, Mom, I'm already in the car!" Chris said, making a good-natured protest.

"Ma'am, I personally guarantee he'll make it back," Jason guaranteed. "He'll be all right. Just a quick drive around town, let him get some air, and he'll be right back."

"Everything past the driver and front passenger windows is tinted," Tony pointed out. "We'll have Chris' window cracked and the ones up front down. Nobody will even be able to see he's in the truck."

"And we'll put our lives on the line to keep this guy safe if we have to," Jason said.

"You have our word," Tony agreed, bowing his head briefly.

Mom looked like she still wanted to grab Chris and drag him back inside, just call the whole thing off right now, but in the end she sighed and backed away, and let Tony shut the door.

"I don't want you boys a minute late," she warned. "Chris needs his rest. And don't you go calling me and saying he wants to go see a movie ten minutes from now! Come right back, no exceptions."

"Thanks, Mom," Chris called.

"Thank you, ma'am," Tony said.

"Ma'am," Jason said to her, tipping an invisible hat.

Chris rolled down his window and held up his cell phone. "With me the whole time, Mom, I promise."

"Good." Mom hesitated, then added, "I hope you have a good time, sweetie."

"Thanks, Mom."

 _I will come back. Don't you worry. I will make it back._

 **XX**

As Tony started the Expedition and backed out of the driveway, Chris struggled to find the right words to say to his friends. They had gone from being skeptical of him, to respectful, to being his mentors and best friends. Chris had learned so much from these two, owed so much to them. They had taught him how to be the super-cool athlete he had always wanted to be in high school, and now they were going to help him go and take down evil for the first time in his life.

Thinking about the whole thing, combined with all that nice, mature, serious stuff they had said to Mom in the driveway, made Chris start crying again. He wasn't sure what it was exactly, but sleeping and weeping came to him quite easily. Maybe almost dying had made him both tired and highly emotional, or something. It was not cool, or macho, to start crying all the time, but Chris just couldn't help it.

"Oh, what the hell is it this time?" Jason grouched from behind his Aviator shades.

"Be nice, Jason," Tony chided him, adjusting his own Aviators with one hand.

"I just wanna thank you guys," Chris said. "Like, for everything. Thank you so much."

Tony smiled in the rearview mirror. "It's been fun, man. Now let's go burn down a house, huh?" After a moment, Tony elbowed Jason. "Say something nice to the man, Jason."

Jason grumbled something.

"Oh, what was that?"

"I said- I said you guys are pretty cool, and… well… let's go burn this place down already. I got a serious fuckin' beef with some house that tried to eat the soul of a guy this fuckin' cool." Jason jerked his thumb back over his shoulder toward Chris as he said the last few words.

"Aw, Jason," Chris said, surprised and touched that Jason had actually fessed up to it, however reluctantly. Tony had something caught in his throat as he stopped for a light.

Jason turned around. "You're fuckin' awesome, man. But if you go around telling everybody Jason Morgan is handing out the Hallmark moments…" he grinned. "I'll make ya pay. You have no idea. Huge."

"How about I just skinny dip in your pool all summer once my arm's better?"

"Oh, like you weren't just gonna do that anyway?" Jason retorted, and Tony whinnied laughter as the light turned green. Chris grinned, but let out only a few chuckles. If he laughed too much, his ribs hurt, and he didn't need that.

But there was nothing Chris would rather be doing right now. Going to face a danger this big, for a reason this good, with friends he trusted this much. For some reason he thought about English class, and the phrase _Once more into the breach_. After a moment, Chris found himself adding, _Noplace I'd rather be._

 **XX**

The drive out to Fleetwood Hall took ten minutes. Chris knew because he glanced at his watch right before he started shaking, trembling all over, as he stared uphill at that terrible place. He could see it, and knew it could see him. The front gates were badly twisted, ripped wide apart by a speeding Camaro, and Tony crossed himself with one hand as he drove through them.

Chris took hold of his cross necklace- the one that Tony had given him, a little ironically, more so he could seem deep and serious to girls than to actually be religious- and started praying. Tony joined in, and the two boys proceeded to say the Lord's Prayer in Italian.

Jason looked around the overgrown, unkempt grounds that had once been the very picture of grand, extravagant splendor, and then up at the enormous brick mansion. He suddenly spoke in a quiet voice, very much unlike his usual bombast and swagger. "I got chills, man. I don't like this place. I don't like it. We better get out of here fast."

"Amen," Tony and Chris replied, and Tony circled around the towering water fountain that was wide enough to fit a Volkswagen in, then parked. Chris noticed that Tony had stopped in just the right place to drive straight out the gate, and he found assurance in that. Clutching nervously at the cross around his neck, Chris got out with Jason carefully helping him the whole way.

Tony was already heading to the back of the Expedition. He opened the liftgate, and hefted two 5.3-gallon cans and hauled them toward the house. Jason did the same. Chris grabbed the three packs of four road flares, and stuck the flare gun in his back pocket. He looked up at the house and whimpered as a sudden gust of autumn wind made him shiver, even though it was not even summer yet.

Jason was right. We need to get out of here fast.

"We better go inside," Jason said. "We'll get the fire started better that way. We should go inside. I really think we should go inside."

"Man, I really don't wanna do that," Chris said, shaking his head. "I don't…"

"Come on," Jason said with his classic confidence. "I'll be with you the whole time, and so will Tony. Nothing in any fucking haunted house'll ever get the better of us. Let's go in and torch this place."

 **XX**

Only after all of the fuel and flares- plus about a thousand matches in two 500-match boxes- were out of the Expedition did the boys approach the front door of the mansion. Tony shivered as he looked up, setting down the last two cans. "Jesus, I feel like someone's watching me from every window in this place."

"Someone is," Chris answered, feeling himself trembling again. He forced himself to focus and looked at the front door.

It was spotless. The panel Chris had kicked out was back in place.

Chris blinked.

The panel was knocked loose.

Jason sarcastically hammered on the front door with one of the gas cans. "Knock, knock," he called. "Room service!"

Nothing happened.

"Well, I tried," Jason said, shrugging. "Hey, let's do the other easy thing." He set down the left gas can he was carrying, went up and tried the brass doorknob. When his hand closed around it, Jason suddenly said, "Mr. Marshall. You are expected. Please. Come inside. But do behave yourself. We allow only gentlemen here, Mr. Marshal."

Before either of the other two boys could ask what the hell was happening, Jason opened the door, picked up the gas can he'd set down, and walked inside.

"Jason, what'd you talk like that for?" Tony asked.

"Like what?" Jason asked, confusion plain on his face as he looked at his friend. "I just went up and opened the door."

"You talked real fancy, like, almost British. You called me 'Mr. Marshal' and said you were expecting me," Chris said.

"What?" Jason asked, giving a shaky laugh as he set the gas cans down. "I never said that."

"I heard it," Tony replied.

"Whatever," Jason said. "Come on, Tony, Sir Broken-Arm here's not gonna haul fifty gallons of gas in himself, that's for sure."

Chris tossed the flares down, and was nervous just at the tiny noise they made, amplified by this cavernous entrance hall. Those elegant, sloping wooden stairs- Henry and Mark had called it the Grand Staircase! Chris remembered flying down them in the last stage of his desperate bid for freedom. He had made it, only to come back. Was he crazy? What was he doing here?

Jason and Tony a minute or two hauling the gas in. Chris was worried. Already they were getting close to the time limit before they had to leave. But if this thing went wrong, that would be the least of their worries.

"Okay," Tony said, "so I figure we better douse the stairs, all that wood, you know? And those carpets in that hallway off to the left there."

"Better get the kitchens I can see in there, or that living room," Jason suggested. "Maybe there's some gas in the kitchen still, and that'll go up. And living room's perfect, because it's got- it's- it's got-" Jason stuttered to a halt, blinked. "What?"

"Are you okay?" Chris asked.

"I feel fine. Why?"

"You just stopped talking all of a sudden."

"I said I'm fine, Tony. Okay. Tony, you dump, like, three gallons on the stairs and two in that hallway to the right. I'll go ahead to the left and dump five fucking gallons in that living room, just soak it. And then we'll dump some matches and flares around."

"Better just shoot the flare gun to set it all off," Chris remarked. "It'll be too close for anything else either way."

"Not you, Mr. Cripple," Tony said. "Give me that."

"Why can't I have it?" Chris asked defensively.

"Because you're right-handed. And Jason's too dumb."

"Fuck you," Jason said, wiping at his brow. "Just let him keep it, huh?"

"Then go forth and conquer," Tony said, giving Chris an elegant bow. "Just don't shoot this guy here, huh? I've known him a long time and I'd rather if you didn't shoot his ass, you know?"

"So his ass, specifically? Like, I can shoot the rest of him?"

"Whatever," Jason said. "Come on, Chris. Let's go commit arson."

 **XX**

The boys worked fast, mindful of the time limit they were under, but fast and careful tended to conflict. They were going to smell of gasoline when this was over, that was for sure. Chris busied himself as much as he could, uncapping flares and setting them in strategic locations, tossing handfuls of matches across the room.

Jason emptied one metal can after another, a grim look of concentration on his face. Several times Chris turned around, sure someone was behind him or Jason, but nobody was there. Tony repeatedly called out from the entrance hall, indicating he was still okay, and Chris took to calling back. It helped remind the boys that they were still connected, still alive and okay in this cold, empty, dark house.

No, "empty" was wrong.

There was something very much alive in here.

"Okay, I think that does it," Jason announced. "Tony, we're all done here!"

"Good! I'm- I gotta go check something! I think I left my matches down the hall here!"

Chris thought that sounded odd, but he didn't know Tony's exact strategy for setting the gas and flares. He left the living room with Jason, turned at about a hundred feet and drew the flare gun. He was about to fire it when his cell phone suddenly went off, vibrating like a toy Chris had considered buying for Nicole, before he had a good laugh realizing he was the toy she already had.

Vrrrm! Vrrrm! Vrrrm! Vrrrrm!

Without thinking, Chris jammed the flare gun in his pocket and dug clumsily for his phone. He opened it and heard a long, horrific screech of static. No, not static. Chris had never heard a sound like that in his life. It was agonizing, going up and up and up in pitch and volume, but Chris was rooted to the spot, paralyzed, unable to tear himself away or just snap it shut.

Suddenly he felt blinding white pain, and screamed at the top of his lungs as he crashed to the ground. Powerful arms seized him, flipped him on his back, and closed his windpipe.

Jason stared down at him, his face a twisted mask of hatred. Chris swatted at him, tugged at his sleeve, but he didn't stop. His lungs began to convulse as he tried to take in a breath, couldn't, and tried harder and harder. Chris' legs kicked and flailed, and his eyes bulged wide.

 _Help,_ Chris wanted to scream _. Help me. It can't end like this. I had a date with Nicole. I was gonna skinny-dip at your house once my arm got better. I'm your friend._

But he couldn't make a sound.

The world stared graying out, going dark at the edges, and Chris felt something hungry, something old and tireless and very… very… hungry waiting for him wherever he was about to go. Terror seized Chris as he heard Jason speaking to him, a thunderous voice like the voice of God.

"No visitor has ever left Fleetwood Hall without _my permission_ ," Jason roared, speaking as if through a megaphone. "I insist you stay with us, Christopher Marshal. _I insist you stay here!_ "

 _Help. Please. God. Someone. Anyone. Help. I don't want to die. Please._

Chris was fading. He could feel it. Oh, the irony, to be nearly done with his mission but choked to death by his best friend, gone insane because of the house, the fucking _house_!

"Hey, I heard a scream," Tony called, and his voice, his sneakers, sounded distant, like they were coming from the far end of a tunnel. "Is everybody- _hey_ , what the _hell_? What the- JASON! JASON, GET OFF HIM! JASON, WHAT THE _HELL'S_ WRONG WITH YOU?!"

Jason took a hand off Chris' throat and grabbed the flare gun, thumbed back the hammer, and fired. Tony screamed and dove, and the flare shot under the right railing of the Grand Staircase and-

-and the stairs practically exploded.

The gallons of premium gasoline detonated instantly, swiftly spreading to the rug above them, and the house emitted another shuddering moan like the one Chris had heard before. He was still being strangled, his chest still heaved as his lungs screamed for air, but the presence eagerly awaiting his full arrival had retreated somewhat, was perhaps, now, distracted by other issues that were dividing its attention.

Jason snarled, chucked the flare gun and turned back to strangling Chris. The blackness began to close in, faster now, and Chris felt his bladder let go. This was it. He was going to die. Maybe, just maybe, the flames would spread and get him before the house could. Or maybe the house would burn before it could take the chance to consume Chris' soul, or keep it for long.

Tony came running up just then, the discarded flare gun in his right hand. A fierce expression of absolute focus was on his face, and he whacked Jason with the broad side of it on the right side of his head. Jason cried out and collapsed on his left side. Chris' throat opened up again, and he gasped, sucking in all the air he could. It burned. It hurt so bad. But Chris was alive.

"Chris, Chris! Are you okay?"

"I think so," Chris managed to say. He barely recognized his own voice, as strained and hoarse as it suddenly was. "Wh-what about Jason?"

Tony glanced. "Shit. I think I knocked him out." He gently reached down and hauled Chris to his feet. "Come on, Chris, put your good arm around my shoulder."

"We gotta fire two more flares!"

Tony looked around. "Where- shit, where're the flares for it? Fuck!" He ran for the center of the room where, miraculously, a last pair of flares lay discarded.

Chris knelt and shook Jason's muscular right shoulder. "Wake up, man. Wake up!"

Jason didn't respond. He was breathing, but that was it.

"Okay, here we go!" Tony screamed, lighting the first flare and flinging it through the air like a javelin… or maybe a football. It must have been aimed well enough, because with a dull WHUMP the hallway on the far side of the stairs exploded into flame.

"Wake up!" Chris shouted. Jason grunted. The redhead stood, seized Jason by one arm, and started dragging him toward the door. It was slow work, and as the house let out another long, loud moan, this one sounding vastly more alive and pained than the first, Tony yelled, "We better hurry up!"

Chris staggered, fell, barely avoided coming down on his broken arm, slung and wrapped in that cast. He forced himself up again in time to see Tony dive to avoid a falling timber from the roof above them. It had just broken loose all on its own. A hundred pounds, a thousand? The beam was enormous, and send a shower of splinters flying everywhere like shrapnel when it smashed into the hardwood floor.

Tony sprang up, panting like mad, and sprinted for Chris. Just as the redhead faltered again and dropped Jason's arm, Tony was there, looking every inch like his paratrooper father. Eyes wild, cross necklace swinging from his neck, he shouted something in Italian, lit the last flare, and hurled it into the gasoline-soaked living room behind Chris like a grenade.

WHUMP!

The entire house shuddered, and Chris saw the portrait of the old woman up on the far wall coming alive, eyes red, fangs where there should have been human teeth. She looked at Chris and howled, and suddenly it seemed like the entire house was roaring at him. The fires were spreading fast, and Chris realized that he might die if he took much longer to escape from here.

Tony, though, was already ahead of him. Still shouting and yelling in Italian, he knelt, threw Jason over his shoulders, turned, and sprinted for the door, which slammed shut. Chris staggered as something exploded behind him, and the house shook yet again. Tony reached the door, raised one foot, and kicked right beside the doorknob as hard as he could. The door flew open, and Chris, barely on his feet, forced himself to run.

Time seemed to slow as he sprinted, and Chris grabbed at the cross necklace. It seemed to bring him back a bit. The world came back into focus just enough. _Jesus, Mary, get me through,_ Chris thought _. Jesus, Mary, get me through. Left, right, left, right. Don't stop. Jesus, Mary, get me through…_

Then he was outside, out into the afternoon sunlight, coughing from the smoke and the soot already billowing out from the house as one window after another blew outward, showering the yard with glass. Tony ran out to meet Chris, swept him up, and placed him carefully in the front passenger seat of the Expedition.

"Jason-" Chris coughed out, but Tony said, "Back! In back!"

All around them, the mansion as shaking, crumbling. Several bricks just barely missed the windshield. Chris threw a panicked glance over his shoulder, and Jason was indeed there, unconscious, belted into the seat where Chris had been on the ride over here. He was breathing, and Chris didn't see any blood on him. Chris prayed his friend was okay. They'd gotten him this far, at least.

Then an entire brick chimney, collapsing from somewhere up high in the midst of this sudden earthquake, slammed into the driveway behind them, and Chris was brought back to the present.

"Drive," Chris suddenly shouted at Tony. "Drive! Jesus, Jesus, drive!"

Tony already had the SUV running, and the Expedition's huge V8 roared as he stomped on the gas pedal. Chris wanted to scream in panic as the truck went nowhere, but after a moment Tony threw it into gear and the Expedition leapt forward, speeding out of the yard. A stone gargoyle crashed to the ground next to them, and even the wrought-iron gates seemed to be twitching, straining to pull inward and block the Expedition from escaping-

But that wasn't enough. Already climbing towards sixty miles per hour, the Expedition shot through the busted-open gates, fishtailing wildly as Tony fought to turn left and avoid rolling downhill. Chris was thrown against the door and felt white-hot pain, but then the Expedition straightened out.

Chris wept with relief. He didn't know how, but they were all alive and that wretched house was going up in flames.

They'd made it.

* * *

 **A/N: 9-12-2018.**

 **Updated: 9-14-2018.**

 **And with that, Chris Marshal's plan to deal the Evans brothers a serious blow is done. He, Jason, and Tony still have to get away and get back to the Marshal house, but Fleetwood Hall is in flames. They've gotten that far.**

 **The 2002 miniseries** _ **Rose Red**_ **\- titled** _ **Stephen King's Rose Red**_ **on the DVD cover- served as an inspiration for parts of this chapter. Fleetwood Hall has always been heavily based on Rose Red. There, as in here, the house affects some more than others. Jason Morgan is influenced and then directly controlled by Fleetwood Hall as it attempts to defend itself. Letting the boys in was in all likelihood a sort of gamble by the mansion. Let them in, have Jason strangle Chris and then knock out or kill Tony, and not only has the plot been stopped but three souls have been captured instead of one. Obviously, that didn't work, but even whatever entity or spirit inhabits the house can make mistakes, or at least, it isn't omniscient and can't foresee everything.**

 **Go ahead and review, or don't. It's up to you! Of course, you might take a look at the pages for phorosz, fear2breathe, and AM83220, three loyal readers and excellent writers, if you're looking for more to read.**

 **John W. Ripley, U.S.M.C., is referenced in this chapter with Chris' thought process as he is running for the door as the house burns. Ripley, during his most distinguished act of heroism in the Vietnam War that earned him the Navy Cross, said to himself over and over "Jesus, Mary, get me there".**

 **Lastly, the room that Chris, Tony and Jason incorrectly refer to as a "living room" is actually a sitting room or drawing room. Rooms that we know as living rooms were not called that in early 20** **th** **century American houses, mansions most of all. Sitting room, drawing room, or perhaps a parlor, but not the much more modern term of "living room". Of course, Chris has no idea of the correct terminology, and neither do Jason or Tony, so they don't notice the incorrect phrasing.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

* * *

They were almost out of here.

Henry knew it, Mark knew it, and the asshole detective knew it, too. He had no hard evidence, despite being on exactly the right track, and that meant he could make no charges, no arrests. He had nothing.

Things were going the way Henry and Mark wanted, after all these fuckups, and Henry was just starting to tune out the cop's prattling when pain slammed into his head like nothing he'd experienced in all his life. It was a message, an order, a primal scream ordering Henry to COME HOME.

Home was in danger.

The enemy had found Home and was destroying it, burning it down.

The blond teen clutched his head with both hands and screamed as his head felt like it was ripping itself apart. Mark, beside him, was howling in pain, and the detective was staring at both of them, wide-eyed, calling for someone.

Then Henry was on him. He vaulted forward, toward the door the man was starting to open, and when he actually tried to block it, Henry reached for the man's gun.

Incredibly, he reacted fast enough that they struggled with it once Henry got it out of the holster, and it was Mark who had to charge up, grab the detective's head, and twist. That sickening snap was enough, and Mark dropped him as Henry took the Glock.

"We better get out of here," Henry moaned. "Hurry, Mark, come on!"

Mark threw open the door, and together they charged into the hallway. Henry ran into a cop, probably one summoned by the detective, and shot him in the head.

"Hey, what the hell's goin' on?" Another cop jumped up a cubicle desk, drawing his gun. Henry shot him without hesitation.

"Hands up!" Sergeant Laszenski shouted, coming into view from one of the side rooms. "Hands-"

Henry shot her twice in the mouth, and that shut her up. Mark shoved a pocket knife into the neck of another cop stepping around a corner with a shotgun, snatched the shotgun from the cop, and fired it down the hall right as an officer was about to plug Henry.

"Thanks," Henry breathed.

"Welcome," Mark said.

The station was coming alive by then, and Henry and Mark were forced to battle their way out, shattering glass, blowing out computer monitors, and gunning down one Portland cop after another. Even all their training hadn't prepared them fully for an assault on the precinct from the inside. They mounted a clumsy defense that quickly collapsed as Mark blasted through the walls and Henry picked them off as they showed themselves or moved to fall back.

The shouts, the screams, and the blaring of some goddamn alarm made such a racket that Henry could barely hear himself as he yelled things to Mark. He snatched up a magazine for the Glock, swapped it for the one he'd just run out of, and kept running as Mark reached the front desk.

Just as Henry started to catch up with him, Jackson Lee, that worthless gook, sprang up from under one of the waiting area benches and hit Mark like a freight train. Powerful muscles working like mad under his tan skin, Jackson grabbed the shotgun with both hands and wrestled it out of Mark's grip. He was gearing up to beat Mark to death against the wall of the police station when Henry shouted something.

Jackson turned, his face twisted with rage, and looked Henry in the eyes. There was no fear there, even when he saw the Glock. Jackson was a fighter, a warrior to the core. Henry might have respected that if he didn't hold everyone who got in his way in utter contempt. More important, Jackson had payback long overdue, and now he had done the unforgivable two times. Henry raised his right arm and shot the soccer player in the head.

Under the force of the bullet, Jackson's head snapped back as his blood, brains, and bits of his skull sprayed the wall behind him. He dropped like a sack of potatoes to the floor of the station. Henry noticed another guy he recognized, a loser with a swirly, dyed-blond haircut cowering under another one of the waiting room benches, and fired two shots, neither of which seemed to score a hit. Henry saw other people hiding under benches, could hear cries and screams despite the deafening racket of that alarm and the way his hearing had gone dull from the gunfire.

But Mark was there, grabbing Henry by the arm.

"COME ON!" Mark screamed at his brother. The two rushed for the door, and Mark shoved it so hard that it jerked off one of its hinges and hung at an angle.

Henry's hands shook as he dug for his keys; he dropped the Glock and heard it discharge as it hit the pavement, blowing air out of the front right tire on the white Oldsmobile 442 convertible that was parked close by.

 _John LaFleur. That's John LaFleur's car. That son of a whore came here with that fucking gook to snitch on me and Mark. I should have killed him, too._

No, no, there was no time for that! Maybe later, if there _was_ a later, but not now. Henry unlocked the Beast, threw the driver's door open and hit the power lock button. Mark jumped in the front passenger seat, and Henry had the turbodiesel engine started before Mark had even shut the door.

 **XX**

John's ears were ringing so loud he wasn't sure if it was them, or one of the alarms going off. He stood up, staggered, slipped and fell on something slick on the floor. As John landed next to the body, barely managing to avoid cracking his elbow, he realized it was Jackson Lee's blood.

"Is everybody okay?" John bellowed. "Can anybody hear me?"

A chorus of groans, wails, cries and screams greeted him, and John forced himself up. He checked on the handful of people who'd been in the waiting area with him first. A mom and her two kids, a lady he was pretty sure he'd seen working at one of the courthouses in Portland when he was by there one time, a lawyer who looked like he was going into shock…

John didn't even notice the bullet that had clipped his left earlobe, taking a piece of it and letting blood run down his neck and onto his yellow t-shirt. He was barely aware of anything. The signals were all scrambled. But somehow John had enough of his wits about him that he staggered from one place to the next, asked people if they were okay. Amidst the blaring of the alarms, he ran from here to there, breaking open a cabinet with a whole arsenal of first aid stuff, bandages and everything, and either fixing up what he could guess people needed, or what they said they needed.

As he moved from one spot to another, John talked to people- wounded cops, clerks or other civilian employees of the station, a guy who kept repeating he was just here to interview for a job, visitors caught in the wrong station on the wrong day- and tried to keep them calm. The sprinklers went off for some goddamn reason, and John hurried to get Jackson's body outside. All he could think about was how much Jackson would have hated to be left out in the rain.

 **XX**

Almost the instant the Beast's giant turbodiesel fired up, Henry shifted into reverse and backed right into traffic, ramming a bakery delivery van. The driver got out to both yell at Henry and assess the damage to his vehicle, but within a second or two Henry had shifted into drive and was speeding away. Henry barely ever took his foot off the pedal. He just steered, relying on his superior reflexes.

Flying toward a four-way intersection, Henry just jerked left into the oncoming lane to get past the cars in front of him, ignoring the screech of tires and the blaring of horns. The enormous Hummer slid sideways into the middle of the intersection before its huge off-road tires caught the road again. Henry stomped on the pedal again, pressing it to the floor. The Beast shot forward, starting the journey across town as Henry blew through one intersection after another.

As the Beast shot down the road, swiftly climbing toward its maximum speed of 120 miles per hour, Mark just held on. Neither one of them said anything. There was nothing to talk about. Only a mission to save the house which had given them so much for so long, and Henry could only drive and hope they were not too late.

 **XX**

Jason Morgan blinked a few times as he came to. He sat up and looked around, and then groaned as he immediately regretted it. Somebody had hit him really fucking hard with something on the right side of his head, and it hurt like hell. God, it was like somebody had smacked him with a nightstick or something!

There was Tony up front, jabbering in Italian as he drove away from Fleetwood Hall, from that creepy fucking mansion up on the hill. Chris was panting, clutching the cross around his neck. Both boys' eyes were as wide as dinner plates.

"Guys," Jason said, groaning again as a wave of pain hit him. "Jesus fucking Christ, guys-"

Tony screamed and slammed on the brakes, swerving wide to the left and off onto some side road. Chris wailed at him to stop, stop, fucking stop this thing, and Tony did manage that after a few seconds of flailing around with the wheel.

"Oh, my God," Chris gasped, looking back. "Jason. I-I-I can't take too much more of this, man." His voice was hoarse, Jason noticed, and his friend looked especially pale and strained. Well, it made sense. You didn't come face-to-face with the supernatural every day.

"Jason," Tony asked, turning around, "are you all right? What's your full name?"

"Jason Pierce Morgan," Jason answered. "What's- what happened? Why can't I remember- did we set the place on fire?"

"Yeah," Chris replied in that hoarse voice. "and you went crazy and tried to choke me to death."

"I never did anything to you!" Jason exclaimed. "What the hell're you talking about?"

"Jason, I don't know what that was but- I think that place had you," Tony said in a shaky voice as he backed up, turned around, and headed back toward the intersection. "You were gone, man. You were busy choking Chris when I hit you and got you out of there."

"I-I don't- I don't remember anything," Jason said, carefully touching the side of his head. "I tried to choke Chris?"

"There was this look you had," Chris said. "This look… I'm just glad Tony didn't kill you."

"What…?" Jason asked, throwing his hands up. "I don't understand."

"I don't, either," Tony replied. "But we need to get out of here for now. I don't know how we're gonna explain this to Chris' mom." He put on his blinker, started turning left. "But I do know-"

Jason noticed something big and dark rushing toward them, moving much faster than it should have been on a road, any road, and realized it was a black Hummer. Jason yelled out a warning and Tony looked and shouted in alarm, and Chris cried out in fear, but none of them could do anything. The Expedition took the impact on its rear left flank, fishtailed like mad, and this time Tony could not correct it. The SUV's high center of gravity, combined with the enormous force that struck it and flung it aside, forced it over, into a roll. Jason screamed as the Expedition rolled off the road and onto the grass. The roof was bashed so hard it threatened to cave in, Tony lost his hold on the wheel as his airbag detonated, and safety glass flew everywhere as the windshield and all the windows were destroyed. The noise of the crashing, rolling Expedition sounded like the end of the world.

 **XX**

When everything suddenly went silent, Jason noticed his seatbelt digging into his right shoulder, his waist, and felt blood rushing to his head. He was alive, but upside down. Sunlight shone in through where the windows should have been. Every light on the dashboard was on, a Christmas tree of warnings and alerts. Tony hung limply from his own harness, unmoving. Blood ran from a gash on the left side of his forehead.

Chris wasn't moving, either. Like Tony he just hung there, and didn't respond to anything Jason said. His beloved silver cross necklace, a present from Tony as Jason remembered, dangled from his neck, swinging back and forth.

Dimly, Jason became aware that something was trickling, no, gushing from behind him, and he could hear something hissing or snarling up front, like a breached radiator… or maybe the battery. Jason yelled for help, but nobody responded. He yelled at his friends but they didn't hear him. Jason could hear sirens, but he could also smell more than just the gasoline that had gotten on the boys when they'd been prepping to torch the Fleetwood Hall place.

Acting more by instinct than by conscious thought, Jason fumbled for his pocket knife. Incredibly, it was still there, like a loyal friend, held inside his right pocket by its metal clip. Jason yanked it free, but his hand, shaky and sweaty as it was, immediately dropped it. Jason swore and wriggled frantically, straining to reach the goddamn knife. After a moment, he thought to try hitting the seatbelt release, and almost cracked his head on the dome light a second later.

Every inch of Jason seemed to ache, and he felt woozy, unable to do more than crawl as he got moving. He called for Tony and Chris as he crawled out through the shattered window of his door, but they still couldn't hear him. Jason had to get away. The smell of gasoline was getting stronger.

 _What about those two?_

 _What_ about _'em?_

 _I better go back. They're probably just knocked out._

 _They're dead. You gotta save yourself. No time to play hero._

 _They are your FRIENDS. Get your ASS back there and save them!_

 _But-_

 _Would they leave YOU to die if it was on them?_

Jason knew the answer to that. Tony was too given to actually caring about people, and Chris had his whole all-American-Boy-Scout and I-wanna-be-friends-with-basically-everybody act, except it wasn't an act, which made it so much worse to put up with.

But nobody else was fun to be around the way they were.

Insisting it was for that, and not because he actually cared about what happened to them, Jason staggered back to the barely-recognizable Expedition, knife in hand, and frantically checked the redhead's pulse as he reached him. It was there. Jason fought with the seatbelt release, was unable to get it to work. He cut through the belt just as flames began eating at the passenger compartment, moving away from the engine along gas-soaked grass. After hauling Chris out through the open window and laying him out on the grass a safe distance away, Jason turned around and went back for Tony.

 **XX**

The massive cloud of smoke rising into the sky had struck terror into Henry as he drove uphill. Seeing the first of the flames made him feel despair. After barely even noticing it as he rammed what looked like Tony Summers' Expedition, Henry steered the Beast onward. If he had even noticed the Expedition flipping over and coming to rest on its roof, Henry still would not have cared.

Tony was disposable, like all the idiots and losers Henry had surrounded himself with at Mark's suggestion, and with Mark's assistance. Henry had no concern for what happened to him. The Beast had taken a pretty serious hit from the impact, though; the front's left side was mashed inward and the engine didn't sound so good.

It didn't matter. The truck kept going, which was all Henry needed. He drove uphill, through the smashed gates and into the yard of the house.

"NO!" Mark screamed, throwing up his hands in horror. "NO! THIS CAN'T HAPPEN, HENRY!"

Henry braked to a stop, threw the truck into park, and got out. He moved slowly, as if he was in a dream. He stared upward, watching helplessly as Fleetwood Hall, already engulfed in flames, continued to be consumed.

"Why are you standing there?" Mark bellowed at his brother, jumping out of the Hummer and running up to him. "Why don't you do something?"

"Nothing we can do," Henry almost whispered. This place had been the source of everything. Saving Mark- and thus himself- and killing a classmate he'd lured here a year before had just been the beginning. So many years, so much gained, so many memories… all of it, undone.

It was that Chris Marshal, that stupid kid. He'd come here somehow and set the place on fire. How he'd done it, Henry didn't know, but he'd gotten away. He'd beaten two guys who never, ever lost, were not even supposed to lose.

"Henry," Mark yelled, grabbing his brother and shaking him, slamming him against the side of the Beast. "Henry! You- this can't be- this can't end! Don't you get it?"

"We lost," Henry said faintly, unable to believe it. "It's over, Mark," he heard himself say. "We're through."

The auburn-haired teen looked at his brother in horror, shaking his head. "You don't get it," Mark said, starting to cry. "I learned everything from you but you don't get it."

"I get it. We're done."

As if to emphasize Henry's point, sirens began to wail in the distance, and they didn't sound like they were going to be all that distant for much longer.

"You- you're wrong!" Mark screamed, shoving at Henry. "I'm not done yet!"

Henry had hoped that he could talk Mark into holding still for a minute, so that Henry could pick up one of the many bricks strewn across the ground and bash his head in. After all, the police were only going to capture them and give them a fate worse than death- in prison, separated, for the rest of their lives. Mark deserved a better fate.

But Mark didn't stay. Emotional and passionate, he was truly convinced he could reverse the irreversible. Mark turned away from Henry and charged into the burning house without a second's hesitation.

At first, Henry didn't run after him. The blond teen couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. But as Mark rushed into the house through a cloud of smoke, Henry realized that Mark had very possibly done something even the blond titan couldn't save him from.

But he had to try. No matter what happened, Mark was still his brother and Henry preferred death together over letting Mark face it alone.

So he sprinted forward and into the house, shouting Mark's name.

 **XX**

The entrance hall of the house was in ruins. The Grand Staircase had burned almost to ashes. The painting of Helen Whitmore was gone, and everywhere Mark turned there was smoke and fire. The house which had sheltered Mark, strengthened and enhanced him and given him so many fond memories with Henry, now looked like a vision of Hell.

For a moment, Mark thought Henry had been right. That it was hopeless, and there was nothing they could do. But Mark refused to give in. What kind of dad could he be for Alexander if he gave up and ran away in the face of a simple fire?

So Mark pulled off his shirt, ran for the nearest flames, and started furiously beating at it, trying to put it out. The heat seared his skin, burned his hair. Mark fought all the same. He was too strong, to perfect- he couldn't lose! It wasn't over!

Mark heard someone shouting and realized it was Henry. He sucked in a breath to call back to him, but got two lungs' worth of smoke and doubled over coughing. Henry was running his way, shouting his name. Mark wanted to yell back, but he couldn't speak. Tears ran down his cheeks.

Then there was a terrific groaning sound, and part of the wood floor high above broke loose and crashed down on Henry. The blond went down with a scream and didn't move.

The auburn-haired teen let out a cry of anguish and sprinted forward, feeling horror, grief, pain, despair, all in equal extremes. He was coming apart. Life without Henry was unimaginable, intolerable. Unendurable. Mark felt Henry's pain shoot through him as the chunk of hardwood hit Henry, and he ran over to him as fast as he could. Mark knelt, shaking Henry's broad shoulders, wailing his name.

 _That you… Mark?_

 _It's me_ , Mark thought back, sobbing. He stood, threw the floor section off Henry but screamed as something else smashed into his left shoulder a moment later. He tried to lift Henry himself but couldn't seem to get his left arm to work, and the air burned. It was toxic, horrible, like breathing in poison gas. _Henry, get up! Get up, we have to go!_

 _Leave, Mark_ , Henry answered. _Let me go. Broke my back. You could run… escape…_

Let Henry go? Let Henry _go_? The world had nothing to offer Mark if it didn't include Henry. Their souls each contained pieces of the other. They had murdered, raped and bullied together. They'd each fathered a child, building a legacy for themselves just like they wanted. They had shared so many good times and known such joy in each other's company. Mark could not imagine life without Henry.

Trying again to rescue his brother, Mark tried to pick Henry up but screamed as his left shoulder flared white-hot with pain. Mark tried again and again but finally gave it up as hopeless. He was feeling oddly sleepy, and the coughing as his lungs tried to reject the foul smoke around him was growing weaker. There was nothing but smoke in the air now, and it was winning, even against Mark's healthy, robust respiratory system.

 _I'm staying with you_ , Mark thought, kneeling over Henry in an effort to shield him from the worst of it. _I'm not leaving you._

 _I knew you wouldn't leave_ , Henry answered, and he uttered a weak laugh. _Don't talk, Mark. The smoke's too much. Stay close to the floor and we'll have a little longer._

Mark hovered over Henry, staying low, determined to shield his brother and keep him safe. Just like he would have done for Mark. Tears streamed down his face. _It can't end here_ , Mark thought. _I wanna see my boy grow up. He needs Dad and his Uncle Henry_.

 _He'll grow up_ , Henry thought back. _He will._

 _I'm sorry I didn't stop Chris_ , Mark thought regretfully.

One of Henry's hands found one of Mark's. _Don't be sorry. It's all right_. After a pause, Henry added, _I love you_ , and Mark felt the deep and sincere love and affection Henry sent with those words. Mark turned Henry over and hugged him. It wasn't going to be long, now. Mark could sense it. He focused everything he could on one last reply: _I love you, too._

 _You did great, Mark_ , Henry answered. _I'm… proud of you…_

* * *

 **A/N: 9-14-2018.**

 **The downfall of Henry and Mark Evans is complete. However, the story itself may not be. I'm considering writing one more chapter at least, to add closure to the story, show the reactions of the many people whose lives will be affected by the vast shockwave that Henry and Mark's criminal actions and demise will send through Portland, Maine.**

 **Imagine the impact what just happened will have at Chamberlain High School, what it will mean for Lisa, who is pregnant with Henry's child, Julie, who has only just started to raise Mark's. Then there's Wallace and Susan, who have been understandably quite unaware of Henry and Mark's true nature and genuinely do love them. Even Connie mostly just dislikes them and has only the vaguest suspicion that something happened to change who Mark is. She doesn't know who Henry and Mark really are any more than Susan and Wallace do.**

 **This chapter is relatively short; it's about 4,000 words, half the usual length I am now aiming for and a mere third of some chapters I have written. However, it so happens that when I first began writing on this website, 4K words was the average length of a chapter for me. I stopped here because things happened relatively quickly- as they would if all this really went down- and I felt this was a good point at which to end Chapter 5. I decided that if I was going to write an epilogue for this story, it would be after Henry and Mark met their end.**

 **It was on a whim that I included John LaFleur, Jackson Lee, Chris Marshal, Anthony Summers and Jason Morgan in this chapter. I could see the first two deciding to go down and talk to the police about Henry and Mark- purely coincidence, as they only realized the brothers were there after driving to the station- in the hopes of making some difference. Scott is probably held up with something- like running soccer practice as he gets ready to turn it all over to the next captain- but would likely endorse them going. Jackson acted exactly as I could see him doing. It may not have been exactly the best thing to do, but then Jackson tried to take Mark down and nearly succeeded.**

 **Chris, Tony and Jason were supposed to get away clean in my original notes, but then I had a hard time figuring out how they were going to (A) explain their late return to Mrs. Marshal, and (B) explain the smell of gasoline and their grimy appearance in particular. I had to do some thinking about whether a heavy SUV like the 1** **st** **-generation (1997-2002) Ford Expedition could be sent into a roll if it got rammed at high speed by a heavy SUV like the Hummer H1. While I'm not exactly sure, I'd say that between the force of the impact and Tony's panicked attempts at steering immediately afterward, it's possible the Expedition could go into a roll like it did. Tony is a young and inexperienced driver handling a large and heavy SUV with a high center of gravity in an emergency situation- a combination that has caused more than one roll-over in real life.**

 **My thanks to AM83220, fear2breathe, and phorosz for their feedback and support. Anyone and everyone reading may feel free to share and all feedback in a review.**


	6. Chapter 6- The Aftermath Pt 1

**Chapter 6- The Aftermath Pt. 1**

* * *

Just as the door closed, Wallace almost fell over. He made his way to the living room, almost leaning on the wall the whole time.

What had just happened? Why were his sons dead? Why were there police outside, keeping a crowd of reporters and journalists at bay?

Wallace managed to make it to a sofa, where he almost collapsed, looking around the remains of his neat, orderly life. The whole house was a mess. Susan was in the kitchen, doing her best to clean that up. She had always taken pride in her clean, neat house, and the FBI had just about destroyed the place going over every inch.

The agents, led by a guy called Richards, had arrived less than a day after the local police came to the door to "secure the property", i.e. to make sure Henry and Mark's parents weren't crazed murderers, too. So Portland PD showed up, then the State Police, then the FBI, all of them with questions, investigations to make. The house was searched and searched and searched again.

Nobody seemed to give much thought to how Wallace or his wife felt about it.

Twenty-four people. That was how many lives Henry and Mark had taken, killing their way out of the police station. They'd killed Detective Emory Parola, the man questioning them, along with a state trooper called Daniels. The chief, Captain Thomas Lauder, had died trying to rally his officers in defense of his precinct. A boy from Chamberlain High's varsity soccer team, Jackson Lee, had died heroically, the news said, trying to stop "the killers".

That was what Henry and Mark had become. The killers. The murderers. The "Portland Psychos", some papers and networks were already going with.

What had happened? Henry and Mark had never given the slightest sign of doing or being anything unusual. The police said that a Chamberlain High student, a senior called Chris Marshall, had accused Henry and Mark of trying to kill him, and that had prompted the police to bring them in for questioning. Then they'd just up and killed their way out of the station, then sped through town to the old Whitmore house, that creepy old mansion nobody wanted to acknowledge, which had mysteriously burned down.

The boys had died inside the house; what they had gone in there for, Wallace didn't know. They'd never talked about it with any interest, not since that one visit they'd made back in 1993, while they were still half-friends, half-enemies, alternately bickering and playing happily as they got to know each other. Why had they gone there? What interest could that old house have possibly held for them?

Again and again, the police, especially the FBI, had asked if Henry and Mark had "done or said anything unusual, or in any way out of the ordinary or concerning". Again and again Wallace and Susan had said no. Apart from being vain and a little short-tempered and pushy, plus having an exaggerated version of that teenage sense of invincibility, Henry and Mark had been normal, if exceptionally popular and athletic, teenage boys.

Or so Wallace had believed.

After so many years of pleasant and quiet life, with the bad, hard days of six years ago safely behind them, the Evans family had been struck with a tragedy worse than all the others put together. Richard, Janice, Jack… and now, not only were Henry and Mark gone, they had taken all those others before they went, and in the process destroyed their own reputation and that of their family.

The landline phone was unplugged, and Wallace was going to use his cell phone to have it turned off. Ever since news of the massacre at the station broke, it had been ringing off the hook, either with reporters wanting a scoop from the "killers' parents", or from angry people, especially relatives and friends of the dead, wanting to let their hatred for Wallace and Susan be known.

 _This isn't my fault, or my wife's. They have it wrong. They can't blame me._

Wallace knew it was true. He had not only seen to it that his and Jack's sons wanted for nothing, but that they had all the care and love a parent could give. Their every need was attended to, every opportunity given to them. Even when Henry accidentally got Lisa pregnant, Wallace's regard for his boys had not faltered for an instant.

All around him, the pleasant, almost easy life Wallace had constructed, had worked so hard to build after 1993, was crashing down. Once among the most-respected people in Portland, Wallace and his wife were now fugitives in their own home. They had been visited by the FBI, every nook and cranny searched. Even if the police found nothing, Wallace still felt like a criminal. He felt unclean, and there was noplace to run or hide.

It was like the massacre at Columbine all over again. Worse, because "Evans" had joined "Harris and Klebold" as the most hated surname in America.

 _I did everything I could for them. I raised them right. I never saw, heard or sensed anything out of place. What could I have done differently? What did Susan and I- what did we do wrong?_

It was, Wallace had a feeling, a question for which he'd never find an answer.

 **XX**

Long after dark, Susan was still up, quietly moving around her house, what had been the center of her happy and orderly life. She needed to put things back after the police, the FBI, had come through, interrogated her and Wallace, and just about turned the place upside down.

It was incomprehensible. Henry was dead, Mark was dead. More than twenty other people were dead, all killed by either Henry or Mark. It was no surprise that Henry and Mark had died together, that they had gone out side by side. What Susan could not even begin to understand was why they had killed all these people before they went.

Old thoughts, old suspicions resurfaced as Susan walked by Henry's empty, ransacked bedroom. He had slept there since he was a baby, and now he would never sleep there, or anywhere, again. Susan remembered how she'd used to worry about him. After Richard had died, she'd started wondering if Henry hadn't had something to do with it.

And there was that way she found him looking at her. Once or twice, when he'd thought she wouldn't turn around and see, didn't think she'd notice he was in the room, watching from a doorway. That smile.

It was almost contemptuous. Almost a smirk.

But every time it happened, Susan had no sooner turned around and blinked once or twice when the look vanished. Henry would then appear friendly or sympathetic, depending on Susan's mood. Like he knew which expression to display.

A long time ago, Susan had sensed a coldness to Henry, an aloof, almost eerie contempt for other people, for everyone besides himself. Henry had given a very plausible explanation for how Richard had died… but Susan had wondered. She'd struggled to put it aside, to stop being suspicious of her own son.

Now, she wondered if she shouldn't have been suspicious of both her boys.

Susan stood in the doorway to Henry's room, then went to Mark's. The glamorous, thrilling lives they'd known were over. They were dead. Worse, infinitely worse, they were famous across the nation as crazed murderers.

There had been that day, just one day, when Susan had seen the same strangely amused, almost contemptuous look on Mark's face. It was a mirror image to the one she'd seen, or thought she'd seen, on Henry's. Almost a smirk, and gone as soon as he knew she could see him.

Six inches of water.

Filled with terribly conflicted feelings of sorrow for her boys' deaths and shame for all the pain they had caused others, Susan turned away from Mark's room, closed the door. She went to Henry's room and closed the door there, too, as if merely closing the doors could ward off the misery the rooms' former inhabitants had brought to so many.

Susan had brought three children into the world, filled their lives with love and care. She had called Mark her son from the minute he'd lost Jack and had nowhere else to go. And now Henry and Mark had gone out together, defiant and murderous, burned to death in Fleetwood Hall.

Across the house, every picture of Henry and Mark had been taken down, hidden away in a closet. The boys who'd been Susan's greatest pride and joy were now her deepest shame.

In the span of a day, Susan's life had changed forever. No matter what people were saying outside this house, on the streets, the radio, TV, those were Susan's sons. She had loved them, and now they were gone, and being the mother of the authors of so much anguish and pain only made the sense of loss worse. Henry and Mark had lived larger-than-life for years, and the house felt emptier for it.

When she got back downstairs, Susan found Wallace sitting in the darkened living room, staring at nothing. She sat down next to him, and his hand found hers. They didn't move or say anything for a while.

"What did we do wrong?" Wallace asked quietly. "Everyone says it was our fault. It's all that's even on the news. What did we do?"

"I-I don't know," Susan said, wiping tears from her eyes. "Why would the boys do this? We never raised them to- they killed all those people…"

"I think we better get out of town," Wallace said finally. "We can't stay. Even if the police have decided we're not at fault… it'll never be the same again."

"No," Susan agreed. "I- Wallace, how can we mourn the boys? I want to, but I never… never imagined I'd have to… like this…"

Susan lost what little composure she'd managed to hold up to that point, and Wallace held her, cried with her. They were in pain. Even if their boys had died doing incomprehensible, unspeakably evil things, they were still their boys. It hurt that they were gone. It hurt so much.

Richard. Janice. Jack. Henry. Mark. Why had the Evans clan been forced to lose so many, endure so much? Why did six years of peace and happiness have to end like this? What had they ever done wrong?

Susan finally managed to say, "Wallace, I-I think you're right. We can't- we can't stay here. We have to go."

"I'll start work on it tomorrow. We'll bring Connie home, and- we'll leave town, for a while at least."

Had the evil in Henry, in Mark- had it always been there? Had they murdered because they'd gone mad somehow, or had they done it because they really were just evil, rotten to the core, like the media were saying?

Why did you do this, boys? I loved you. Being your mom was the best thing I ever got to do. I was looking forward to seeing you each get married, have kids of your own. Be bigger and better than anyone could imagine, achieve the great destiny you both clearly had waiting for you. Instead you did this. I don't understand, boys. Why did you do this?

That one word was the that kept Susan up longer than all the rest, the one that repeated through her head endlessly. It was the one word, the one question Susan would have asked if He would just let her talk to the boys. The thing she wanted to know so badly.

 _Why?_

 **XX**

Connie had the misfortune of being in her dormitory's lounge when the news came on. One of the older girls switched it on, said "something's happening up in Maine."

That was home. That was where Connie lived. It didn't sound good, whatever "it" was. Connie stayed in her spot on the sofa, despite a growing sense that maybe she'd better get out of here.

For some reason, she was sure the news had something to do with her.

There was footage of a wrecked truck or SUV. That was the first thing Connie saw.

"…Behind me is the SUV the three boys were occupying," a reporter was saying. "Identified as Anthony Summers, Jason Morgan, and Christopher Marshal, they were making a left-and turn through the nearby intersection when Henry and Mark Evans rammed Summers' Ford Expedition at high speed. Luckily, these boys did not join the list of the Evans' brothers victims, and are all in stable condition at…"

Connie felt her chest tighten. Henry and Mark? Why had these boys had their SUV wrecked by Connie's brothers?

Victims? There was a _list_ of _victims_?

The room was silent. Everyone was too busy trying to catch every word to talk. Some girls were glancing Connie's way, though. There was frank speculation, curiosity… and suspicion.

A list of victims.

Just as Connie was wondering how soon she could get up and leave without drawing even more suspicion, the dean showed up and said Dr. Cardiff was looking for her. Connie could feel the stares of all the other girls on her back as she got up and left the room.

 **XX**

Dr. Cardiff was on the phone when Connie was escorted into her office. She looked up, nodded, and said into the phone, "Yes, she's just arrived, Mrs. Evans."

"I don't know what's going on," Connie said.

Dr. Cardiff looked at her sympathetically. "Well, your mother- she can probably explain better than I can." She held out the phone.

Connie carefully walked over to the headmaster's desk, took the phone, and held it to her ear. "Mom?"

"Connie, honey," Susan Evans said, "I-I'm about to tell you something you might not… well… it's hard for me to say this."

"What's wrong, Mom? Why were they talking about Henry and Mark on the news?"

"They- the police are saying your brothers did something terrible. I don't understand it, but they said they killed a lot of people at a police station today."

"Are they all right? What happened to them?"

"Your brothers are dead, Connie," Mom said abruptly. "They died in a fire in- in this old house on the north side of town."

Connie was shaking. "Mom, you- this- this can't be real! They wouldn't just do something like that!"

"I'm sorry, honey. I'm so sorry." Mom sniffed. "They were- well, they didn't suffer. I don't know if that helps but it sounds like they went quickly, and so did- so did everyone they… killed."

"Why?" Connie asked, her eyes blurring with tears. "Why would they do this, Mom? It makes no sense!"

"I know, Connie. I don't understand it either. I don't know why they did it."

"I don't understand!"

"It'll be all right, sweetie. We'll- your father and I want you to know that we love you. We're here for you. You can always talk to us. Okay, honey?"

"Mom, I'm scared. This makes no sense. I don't know what's going on."

"It's all right, Connie. I'm here for you."

"Is Dad okay?" Connie asked suddenly. She was reeling from both the deaths of her brothers and the appalling way they had died, and very much wanted to know about her Dad. The Evans family's sons were all gone. Every one. She didn't want anything to happen to Dad.

There was another familiar voice on the line. "I'm okay, Connie. I'm here."

Connie sniffed, tried to blink away tears that wouldn't stop coming.

"I don't understand, Dad," she said. "Why are Mark and Henry dead? Why are they saying things about them on the news?"

"Well-"

"They're- Henry was mean sometimes but not like this! Mark was perfect until he was friends with Henry!" In a moment of grief-induced hysteria, it hit Connie like a blaze of light. "Henry did this! He made Mark bad, Dad! He did something and made him bad! Mark was always nice until-"

"Connie," Dad said gently, "your mother and I just wanted you to know. We didn't want to hide anything from you. There was no easy way to say this. I hope you can forgive us."

"I'm scared, Dad," Connie admitted. Her chest started hitching. "I don't like this. I don't like it."

"I don't like it, either, Connie," Dad said. "I-I don't know how to say this. We lost- our sons are- we- it's just you. You're all I have left, you and your mom. This is… a… a terrible thing."

Mom came back on the line, sounding just as heartbroken as Dad. They had always been so confident, so assured, that hearing the pain in their voices frightened and saddened Connie even more. It was the last step to convincing her this was real. Somehow, her brothers were dead and they had done something horrible before they went. Somehow, the Evans family was now in the news in the worst way possible.

Connie finally broke down about ten minutes in. She managed to pull herself together long enough to say to her parents, "Mom, Dad- I wanna go home. I wanna go home now, for good."

 **XX**

Chris knew he was lucky to be alive. He was a nervous wreck when Mom brought him home from the hospital- again- with his arm, broken again in the crash, reset and put in a new cast. They'd given him stitches for the gash on the left side of his head, cleaned and patched the numerous other cuts on his head, neck and arms. He'd cracked several ribs, but they would heal, they said.

On his first day home, Chris had come down with a whopping headache, and his body had almost glowed with pain. But Mom said they'd given her some medicine, and she gave him some of it with his food, and after that Chris didn't feel the pain as much. In fact, he'd passed out and slept for twelve hours.

Jason going crazy and trying to strangle him had taken its toll, too. Chris' neck had been wrapped with warm towels for several days and he'd had to take additional pills to help with the swelling. Even so, talking had been a bitch for a while.

Mom seemed to buy the story that he, Jason and Tony had just gotten adventurous and tried going up to Fleetwood Hall to see if they could find anything that would help the police with their investigation. They'd been coming back when Henry rammed Tony's SUV. It was good that she did buy it, because Chris didn't want to even begin to speak of what had happened there. What a fool he'd been. His plan had almost cost his best friends their lives, as well as nearly cost Chris his own.

It was better that she didn't know. Better that she never know what really happened.

 _At least Jason gets to be the hero he always wanted to be_.

It had to be such a magnificent thing for Jason, giving interview after interview, telling with surprising eloquence how he'd always known something was wrong with the Evans brothers. You could see it in his face, in his eyes, when he talked, in how carefully he'd clearly prepped his appearance. But Chris had to admit, seeing his role model and best friend on television was pretty cool. Still, Chris wanted nothing to do with the fame himself. That was all for Jason.

 _He can have his fame. I'll just be happy I'm alive_.

Jason would have surely given Chris grief for 'settling' for so little, but as much as Chris admired him and wanted to be exactly like him, for now, being alive was enough. No question. Chris knew how lucky he was.

Thinking about that again drove Chris to go get his Bible off the end table. He read a few passages, all the while holding the cross at his neck. Holding it brought him back whenever he got scared, whenever he started shaking. Holding into it helped.

Eventually, Chris' eyes began to droop as he read, and finally he fell asleep. His mother came in, saw her exhausted son's head against the pillow, and carefully replaced the Bible on the end table. Chris slept soundly.

 **XX**

David Marshall had a cab waiting to drive him home right when he stepped off the Servant. Normally, Laura would be there, ready to pick him up, but she couldn't leave Chris, and Chris, she said, was too weak to make a drive down to the docks. He needed rest.

The details of what had happened were still not very clear, but Chris was badly hurt and had almost died. That much was clear, and that was enough to terrify David Marshall quite completely. His only son, so happy and successful in his final year of high school, had come within an inch of death.

During the entire cab ride home, David could barely sit still or hold a thought in his head. He was scared, more scared than he'd ever been. Press were all over town, police were everywhere. Portland had gone mad. "Those high-school big-shots, Henry and Mark Evans," the cab driver said when David asked, "they went nuts and killed a ton of people. Shot up the 10th Precinct of the Portland PD."

"Where'd that come from? Why'd they do it?"

"Beats me. What I heard was, they tried to off some kid in their school, tried to lure him someplace and he kicked 'em both in the nuts and got away. Then he told the cops, and I guess those two figured they were fucked. Good on that kid who got away from 'em. I just wish more people'd been that lucky."

"That's Chris," David said, realizing.

"What'd you say, buddy?"

"That's my son, Chris. I just got back from- I heard my son was almost killed."

"Lucky you, then," the cab drive said. "Your kid must fight bears for a living to get away from two guys as big as Henry and Mark."

Once they arrived at the house, David hurriedly got out, almost forgetting to pay the driver. He hurried up the front walk and rang the doorbell. In moments, it opened, and Laura was there, throwing her arms around his neck, kissing him, relieved that he was finally home.

"What happened, Laura?" David asked, the second he was free to talk. "Please, tell me everything."

"Chris, he- those boys from his school, Henry and Mark Evans. They- they tried to kill him. That's what he said when he called me, was they got him alone at the old mansion, Fleetwood-something. Then they tried to kill him. He fought them and got away. He wrecked his car, but he got to the police station on Main Street and told them what happened."

"Where is he now? What about the Evans guys?"

"He's upstairs sleeping. They're dead."

"The Evans brothers just killed a bunch of people at the police station, just like that? And that's who Chris got away from?"

"I guess so, Dave. I don't know. Chris can't talk about it. He gets upset."

"How's Chris doing?"

"He's lucky just to be alive. His right arm's broken and he's got a concussion and some cracked ribs. And he was in a car wreck the day the Evans boys killed all those people." Laura shook her head, wiping at her cheeks. "My God, David… what those two almost did to him…"

"But he actually fought them off and got outta there?" David asked, impressed in spite of himself. "Those two Evans guys sounded like tanks."

"Well, Chris says he got away. He doesn't really want to talk about it."

"I guess we can't blame him. He's been through a lot." David was about to ask about waking Chris up, or even just looking at him, to see him with his own eyes and know he was really safe, when a familiar teenage voice called out from upstairs, "Hey, who is that? Who's there? Mom!"

"It's all right, honey!" Laura called back.

"Chris, I made it back!" David announced.

There was a crash of a metal tray and some cups, mugs and silverware- at least, that's what it sounded like- and both parents hurried for the stairs. They encountered a pale and battered Chris leaned against the doorway to his room, breathing hard.

"Christopher!" Laura exclaimed.

"I-I knocked over some stuff," Chris admitted sheepishly. His blue bathrobe hung open, revealing a buff frame clad only in underwear, and Chris quickly pulled it closed and stood up. He cleared his throat, looking at his father in wonder. "Hi, Dad. Uh… I'm alive."

"Chris. It's- so good to see you again."

"I, uh- did Mom tell you what happened?"

"Something about my son kicking a pair of psycho behemoths in the nuts and escaping. Then surviving a rollover. Usual teenage guy stuff for you, I'm sure."

Chris blushed. "Aw, Dad… all I did was stay alive."

"Sometimes that's enough. I'm so proud of you, Chris."

"You are? Really?"

David went to his son, and Chris hugged him with far more strength than he could have months ago. Even with one good arm, he was strong, incredibly fit. And yet he was also incredibly fragile, battered and bruised. David wanted to hug with all his might, too, but doing that would cause Chris a great deal of pain.

But even that cautious thought was proof that Chris was alive. That he'd made it. The family was whole again.

Laura gave her son and husband a minute, then gently scolded Chris for getting out of bed against her order confining him there. Chris, the fit, muscular teenager, who had to stand close to a foot taller than his mother, hung his head and complied immediately. Not ten minutes after returning to bed, his eyes started drooping as he began catching up with his Dad. He dozed for fifteen minutes, but David heard his son's voice just as he got up to let his son sleep.

"Wait, Dad."

David turned, looked at his son. The battered adolescent had raised his left arm, reaching out with his hand. David closed the distance, took Chris' hand in his. As he got closer, he realized Chris was crying.

"Chris," he said, "it's all right."

"I'm so sorry for all the times I got mad at you and Mom. And… I'm sorry for not doing all my chores. You guys're… you're… you- doing a great job." He paused, then added, "I love you."

"I love you, too, Chris."

XX

Anthony Summers wasn't sure what to make of this latest turn his life had taken. On the one hand, he'd gotten the crap knocked out of him. The Expedition's driver's door had broken his left leg as it crimped inward in the crash, and Anthony had spent a day in the hospital being treated for that plus two broken bones in his right hand, three cracked ribs, and a whole array of bruises, burns, cuts and scrapes. A four-inch diagonal gash had been cut into his right eyebrow and down to his cheek, thankfully missing his eye.

Worst of all, as rough as all this was on him, Tony was only marginally better off than Chris at this point. After getting put through this much, his body was experiencing constant aches and pains as it tried to heal. Sleeping would've been difficult, except sheer exhaustion made it quite easy. In fact, the energetic, unstoppable Tony Summers, the famed playboy of the Class of 1999, was now about as active as an arthritic old man.

On the other hand, Anthony knew he was lucky to be alive. He finally knew exactly how Chris felt, why the redhead would start crying at almost any excuse, why he got so emotional about his family, his friends. When you came within an inch of losing it all, you couldn't help but be emotional, couldn't help but have a whole new appreciation of everything you'd almost lost.

Jason had come out of it the best. He'd not only been injured the least, he'd been able to find the perfect story to tell. At long last, Henry and Mark were gone and Jason was doing whatever he had to do in order to be the king. Dad had put a brand-new TV in his bedroom, and Anthony could see his childhood friend all dressed up, strutting around, driving his Mustang or riding in his dad's Rolls-Royce. Giving interview after interview about his life before, during and after Henry and Mark Evans, and how he'd always, always known there was something wrong with them.

It was the finest performance Jason had ever given anybody. His skills in the weight room or the bedroom could hardly compare to his newfound talent as an actor on the stage.

Anthony didn't really mind. In fact, he was happy for Jason. He knew how badly Jason wanted to have the limelight for himself, to be recognized as more than second-best. He'd wanted it for a very long time.

For his part, Anthony was happy to just stay at home recovering. That was good, because that was all that Mom, Dad, Angela and Jessica were going to allow. They'd made it quite clear that Anthony was going to stay home until he was better, and that was to be that.

Tony knew better than to argue. He was outnumbered. Better to just stay in bed, rest, and look forward to when he was up and moving again. For now, Jason got to enjoy the limelight, but when Tony was up and moving again, look out! There had to be a lot of girls out there right now, hurting and needing a kind word, a hug and a kiss now that the teenage heartthrobs Henry and Mark Evans were not only dead but also revealed as monsters.

It was possible Tony knew someone who could help with that.

The brown-haired young rogue was still thinking about that when Angela and Jessica came in, looking solemnly up at him with their pretty little faces.

"Tony, did you need anything?"

"We wanna make sure you're okay."

"I'm fine," Tony replied with a friendly smile. "I just need to rest."

"I think he wants more Jello," Angela said.

"And more cookies," Jessica agreed.

"Well, I could use some milk to go with all that," Tony suggested, and they were out and back in just a few minutes. Tony soon found himself struggling to use his left hand, his off hand, once again. Worse, he was so used to always having two hands available, and he wound up clumsily knocking the plate of cookies over as he tried to grab for it.

Immediately, though, the girls got it and retrieved the cookies, brushed them off, and waited anxiously as Tony ate them, then the Jello, then drank his milk. He looked at them, wondering how much they knew about the 'interesting' romantic life their big brother led, and how many girls he'd been unfaithful to. He actually found himself hoping they didn't date a guy like him when they got older.

After a while, Tony fell asleep without meaning to. He'd gotten so used to being strong that getting knocked on his ass like this really was hard to take. His sisters were still there when he woke up.

"Mom says we can bring you spaghetti in bed!" Angela exclaimed, jumping up and down.

"Is it dinnertime already?"

"Yes, it is," Mom said from the doorway, and she came in carrying a big plate of her best spaghetti, seasoned and with loads of her best sauce added on. She set it down on the folding table near him, and Angela and Jessica set down two glasses of water each and helped move the plate close to Tony. They gave Tony a smaller plate, took a fork each and started cutting noodles up and putting them on it.

Tony looked up at his mother and smiled. "Thanks, Mom. Girls. Thanks."

"Hey, shush," Angela said sternly. "You gotta eat!"

The dark-haired teen stared. He raised his uninjured left arm and flexed his powerful bicep. "See that? You can't boss me!"

"We can, too!"

"Can _not_!"

"Can, _too_!"

"Listen to your sisters," Mom told him.

"Yes, Mom."

Tony grew embarrassed with the way the girls fussed over him, practically feeding him all of his dinner, holding each glass of water for him. The second he even started saying he wanted, or might want something, they were off to get it.

Finally, Dad showed up with two chocolate cannolis and Tony objected.

"Hey, I'm trying to keep my six-pack, Dad!" Tony protested. "Come on-"

"Tony, you, Chris and Jason just about live there anyway," Dad retorted. "Now be happy and enjoy your dessert."

Tony tried to grumble but wound up smiling. Of course, he never got to try feeding himself even for desert. Jessica held the plate, and Angela used the fork to feed the pieces to him. The whole rest of the family just sat around, looking happy and watching Tony, once he was done. When he decided to try to go to the bathroom after a while, Jessica and Angela were there, steadying him as he walked.

"I can make it," he told them.

"We're not leaving you," Jessica answered him.

"We love you too much," Angela added.

Tony suddenly had to start dabbing at his eyes. The hallway in this house was always getting dusty.

"Thanks, girls. I'm sorry you gotta look after me."

"Sometimes the big brother needs someone else to be big brother for a while," Jessica said.

"It's hard being the big brother," Angela admitted.

"You do fine, girls," Tony assured them. "You do just fine."

 **XX**

Jason wished he could have taken a picture of himself right now. Buff and fit as hell, his hair styled flawlessly in preparation for today's interview with ZNN, a $2000 hand-tailored suit, and a $200 ruby red Brooks Brothers power tie…

 _If I could take how awesome I am and bottle it and sell it, I'd be a fuckin' billionaire in an hour_ , Jason thought. He grinned at his reflection and brushed a piece of lint off his shoulder. His broad, magnificent shoulder.

But was his hair truly perfect? Or just _nearly_ perfect? Shit. Jason sighed and picked up the comb again, going over his hair carefully, inch by inch.

"Jason, honey!" Mom called from downstairs. "The camera crew's in the driveway! How's it going?"

"I'm fixing my hair, Mom!"

Dad came out of the master bedroom, adjusting his tie. He was wearing a hand-tailored suit of his own, and looked like the powerful, elegant man that he was. The elder Morgan gave his youngest son a curious look. "You've been fixing your hair for the past twenty minutes."

"It's gotta look perfect, Dad. It's high-maintenance normally and this isn't normal stuff."

"Don't make the press wait, Jason. You've got their attention. Keep it by making this an easy, pleasant experience for them."

"You got it, Dad."

"I'll see you downstairs in five minutes."

"Yes, Dad."

Jason gave an indignant huff once his father was safely out of earshot. Who did he think he was, rushing a walking art masterpiece like Jason Morgan? Looks this good _required_ constant maintenance. That was just the reality of it! Anyone hassling him over a few minutes here or there just didn't get it.

At long last, Jason was emerging from the shadows of the Psycho Brothers to become the superstar he had always deserved to be. Finally, he was number one, the big man on campus. That rated an hour of personal appearance work every day before even going downstairs, let alone leaving the house. Jason was probably going to have to make his parents hire a personal stylist for him.

But all the same, Dad was right. Jason knew he had to keep the press happy with him. They needed to like him, because the more they liked him, the more they would tell the story his way and sing his praises. _Always pamper the press_ , that was the rule.

So with that in mind, Jason carefully combed his hair some more, and was finally satisfied after three and a half minutes. He made his way downstairs, had a seat on the comfortable, high-backed armchair he used for all his interviews- the press got the sofa- and waited.

When the journalist and his camera crew came in and started setting up, Jason stood, smiled, and shook hands with all of them. Jack Harper, the man ZNN had sent, seemed surprised and impressed at Jason's gentlemanly good manners, his elegant, expensive clothes, and the size and grandeur of the Morgan house.

That was to be expected. Most teenagers- most people- just weren't as awesome and as lucky as Jason was. It was a lot to take in all at once.

"What was it like being friends with Henry and Mark Evans? Did you ever suspect anything was-"

"Wrong? Out of place? Just plain messed up?" Jason filled in. "All the time. And you gotta know those two weren't even actually brothers. Mark was Henry's cousin, got adopted by Henry's parents in- '94 or '95, I think. Henry was always kinda weird. Back in elementary school nobody liked him. Then Mark showed up, and they started this… act."

"What kind of an act was it?"

Jason shrugged, turning up his palms. "Have you ever felt like somebody's whole life is an act? Like they can do all the right stuff, but there's just something not right about 'em? It was like they were pretending, but underneath… I didn't like looking them in the eye. It made me feel cold."

"Did you think they'd ever killed anyone before the massacre at the station?"

Jason shivered dramatically. "I think I always knew. That's gotta be why they killed Detective Parola- he was probably about to get one of 'em to tell him where they put the bodies." Harper started to say something else, but Jason, carried away by his own performance, blurted, "They didn't try to kill my best friend because he did anything to them. They tried to kill Chris because they thought they _owned_ him! They thought they owned _all_ of us! Well, I'm here, and so is Chris, and they're not. That's why I do these interviews. I wanna make sure people know the _real_ Henry and Mark Evans."

The dark-haired teen raised a fist, brought it down on the armchair. "People deserve to know! They would've killed all of us if they could."

"Maybe you could have gone to the school authorities with your concerns, or the police..."

"With what?" Jason retorted, throwing his hands up. "I always knew something was wrong with them. Deep down, I knew. But I had no way of proving it. I just… knew."

"It must have been hard, living with what you were aware of. Or even just suspected."

Jason sighed. "I kept it together. I mean, life goes on, you know? Full-time classes, football in the fall season, hockey in the spring. And my buddies were always dragging me to the gym every second I was free. Honestly, I guess I got involved in all that stuff so I didn't have to think about how much Henry and Mark creeped me out."

"Did you ever talk to any of your friends about your- concerns?"

"Henry and Mark seemed to hear about everything," Jason said reflectively. "If somebody coughed in a hallway, they knew before the next class even started."

"You were afraid they would tell Henry and Mark what you said?"

"A bunch of them, yeah. Henry and Mark were like friggin' Nazis, man. They ran everything just the way Hitler and his guys did. There were snitches everywhere. Everyone was trying to get ahead of everyone else."

"You must have had someone you trusted."

"Well, there was Tony Summers, sure. We've known each other since elementary school. And Chris Marshall. They're… uh…" Jason found himself struggling with the words. "Um, I don't say this much, okay? But they're my… best friends."

"So why not tell them? Or did you?"

"Well, I mean-" Jason shrugged. "I never really talked about it like that to anybody. I guess since Henry and Mark seemed to hear everything I thought they might, you know, come after me, or whoever I told about them."

"So you were afraid not just for you, but for your friends."

Jason laughed. Was this dude trying to make him cry? "I never said I was afraid. But yeah, I guess I didn't want to put them in danger. Henry and Mark would've killed Tony and Chris if they'd known I'd told them anything. I mean, just look at what happened anyway."

"Incidentally, do you blame the brothers' parents for what they did?"

"I met 'em a few times. They seemed nice. But Henry and Mark could 'seem nice', too."

"Were you friends with Jackson Lee, as well, or John LaFleur?"

"No."

"How do you feel about what they did?"

"Sounds like they were pretty brave."

"Speaking of brave, there's been mention of you as well, in connection to-"

"I didn't think about it," Jason cut in. "I just- did what I had to do. I'm glad they're still here. I'm glad we didn't lose anyone else. Henry and Mark were monsters. I'm so glad they're gone."

"What will you do now that they're gone?"

"Just enjoy the fact that I'm here, Tony's here, and Chris is here, and they're not. We're going to the University of Alabama together in the fall, you know. It's going to make high school look like nothing. Just goes to show, you, know… never take a moment for granted." Jason suddenly felt his chest seize up, and he blinked furiously to avoid crying and looking like a fool. He managed to say, "I'm just glad I'm still alive. I was lucky."

"Thank you so much for your time, Jason."

"It was my pleasure, Jack."

 **XX**

With Chris and Tony both on bedrest and unable to leave home, Jason was, for the time being, by himself in ways he wasn't used to. He didn't like any of the other guys from school the way he liked Chris and Tony, and a lot of people were unavailable anyway. Henry and Mark killing all those people had changed everything. Some people had simply up and left town until things cooled off. Some had lost a close friend or relative.

Jason had immediately seized upon the chance to have all three of them interviewed, even if it was separately at their respective houses. Chris got upset and asked Jason to leave him out of it, and Jason's mother got mad and Jason felt kind of bad for setting off what sounded like a "passionate" argument in Italian. Jason had let it go, though, and carried on with the interviews himself.

Why didn't Chris or Tony get it like Jason himself did? This was his- _their_ \- hour of glory. No time to chicken out.

The interviews were going well, having just the effect Jason wanted. He was the primary authority among Henry and Mark's former peers, the brave boy who'd always known deep down what they really were. Every second of limelight was heaven. Jason had quickly pulled himself together, looked past his bruises, cuts and the occasional bad dream.

Jason remembered very little of what happened when he, Tony, and Chris tried burning down that creepy old house. He could remember going in, and pulling his friends out of the Expedition after the crash. But the actual event itself just wasn't there. Every time Jason considered that he'd actually come face-to-face with the supernatural, he'd utter this strange little giggle and go find something to do.

Mom and Dad thought that odd, as did Aaron once he came back, but Jason would always avoid explaining it. He'd invited Brittany over virtually every day, went to his personal gym every day, and even went skinny-dipping a few times, much to Brittany's amusement and delight. If it distracted his mind from going near that supernatural stuff, Jason was all for it.

But Jason had no regrets. He was proud of everything just the way it had happened. Henry and Mark Evans had gotten what they deserved and the rest of the dead people were just unlucky. The coming summer was going to be awesome, and the next four years after that would make high school look lame. Chris and Tony were going to be there the whole way, each of them looking up to Jason like the badass he was.

Watching himself on the news that night in yet another interview, so dignified, so humble, so mature for his age, made Jason want to whoop for joy. He'd waited so long. Now his day was finally here.

* * *

 **A/N: 12-11-2018.**

 **After months of editing this chapter, adding to it, but not completing it, I sat down and really devoted my efforts. I want to specifically give my highest thanks to AM83220, phorosz, and fear2breathe for all of their advice, brainstorming, and suggestions for this story. They did so much to help make this alternate ending to TGS a reality. I would absolutely recommend looking at their work if you enjoyed reading mine.**

 **Originally, there was only going to be one more chapter for this, but the sheer length required to depict and include all of the individuals I wanted to meant I had to make a decision. It was either publish a chapter of over 10,000 words, which I have done in the past but now want to avoid, or make it two chapters. So there is now a Chapter 6 and a nearly-completed Chapter 7. There will probably be an Epilogue in the form of a Chapter 8, but we will see how that goes as I work on getting Chapter 7 done.**

 **The "hour of glory" line in Jason's narrative is a reference to Crapgame in the 1970 film "Kelly's Heroes." The end of this chapter also references the closing lines of "American Empire: The Victorious Opposition" by Harry Turtledove.**


	7. Chapter 7- The Aftermath Pt 2

**Chapter 7- The Aftermath Pt. 2  
**

* * *

Scott Shepard shifted in his seat in the front row, a 'place of honor' he'd been given as the varsity soccer captain. The whole team was here, varsity and JV, along with many of Jackson's relatives, some of whom had flown over from South Korea to be here. Scott couldn't seem to get his eyes off that damn rosewood box about ten feet in front of him. It should never have been there, holding the amazing guy it was.

None of this ever should have happened.

 _And yet here we are_ , Scott thought with a small, ironic smile. _Here we are anyway_.

There were a lot of uniforms here, enough that Scott felt a little out of place in his black suit. Yet Major General Lee, Jackson's father, had insisted that Scott be among those sitting in the front row, and everyone Scott had spoken to had treated him with respect.

It all still felt so strange. There was just now way it could be real, could it? Jackson Lee was too tough, too fearless. There was no way he was dead.

But he was. And now John was nudging Scott, tugging at his arm, saying "You gotta go up there, man," in a low whisper.

Somehow, Scott managed to stand up. With supreme effort, he walked across the room, toward the podium, turned and faced the crowd. More than two hundred and fifty people were here today, crowded into this church, including the entire CHS soccer team. It was a testament to the esteem in which Jackson had been held.

Scott paused to clear his throat, and blinked away tears as he made the mistake of looking down at the coffin that now held one of his best friends. No, no it couldn't be real. It couldn't. But it was, and denying it was just nonsense.

Forcing himself to look up, Scott took a breath, let it out, and tried to remember his planned remarks.

"Jackson Lee was the best goalie I ever saw," Scott said. "He played every game like his life depended on it. The worse a game got for us, the happier he seemed to become, because fighting against impossible odds was what Jackson lived for. Life was an extremely serious thing for Jackson. If you had no sense of honor, if you weren't ready to fight and die for the things you believed in, then you weren't worth knowing."

Scott stopped, cleared his throat again.

"I think I can speak for the whole Chamberlain High soccer team when I say that Jackson Lee was my hero, even before what… what happened to him. Jackson was the best friend you could ask for. He was loyal, dedicated, he cared about more things and people than he'd ever admit, and… and he was the bravest guy I ever knew. He never once let me down, never once let the team down. He'd do anything, go any distance, if he called you a friend and he thought you needed his help. But if things got bad enough and everybody was in danger, everyone in the room became his friend. It was as simple as that."

Pausing to collect himself again, Scott wondered what Jackson would have thought of all the people here, all this weeping and admiring and lamenting on his behalf.

"The thing is, if Jackson were here, he'd probably say we're just wasting time. Life hasn't ended. Get off your asses, he'd say. Get out there. Stop crying. Don't quit. Don't give up now. But he would've said it better, and I'm-I'm sorry I don't have the words."

Scott's chest hitched once, twice. "Jackson never gave up. He never lost hope. To him, enough courage, willpower, and skill could carry you through anything. He held us up, carried the team through so many games. He was there. He was always there. By the time I got to senior year, Jackson meant so much to the team that- that life without him seemed impossible. But he's dead. And life is possible." Struggling with his words, Scott managed to say, "He made it possible."

It was almost a minute before Scott could talk again. When he did, it was in a calm, clear voice, and he knew Jackson would have been proud, at least, of how well his best captain's voice carried in the vastness of the room.

"There is one thing I know about the way Jackson Lee died. I know that he died without any regrets. He got up every day and lived like there was no tomorrow, found people and causes he cared about and loved them with everything he had. At the station, he two evil, dangerous people headed his way and charged them head-on. He died with a kind of courage most people probably can't even imagine. He died like a warrior. He died like a Marine. He was there when he was needed most, and for the rest of my life, he'll always be with me."

Scott straightened himself up, turned and walked stiffly and slowly back to his seat. John stood, and gave his shoulder a gentle pat to show he understood. They had such absolute seriousness, such gravity in every facet of their expressions, every movement. The final agony Henry and Mark had inflicted on the world around them had made teenage boys into old men.

 **XX**

John looked out over the sea of faces, at the pain and grief visible on so many of them. Major General Lee refused to cry, had not shed a tear. But he was clearly in pain all the same. No one thought less of him for it.

Trevor and Eric were there, too. Even now, they were barely holding it together. After Jackson's death, the two freshman boys had cried for three days. Jackson had been so obsessed with toughness, with never admitting to pain, hurt, or almost any emotion save anger, that he might not have approved of the boys crying.

But he would have approved of them joining the soccer team, and the incredible dedication with which they approached each and every practice. The teamwork between them was almost unnerving to watch. As midfielders, they were already getting so good they didn't even need to speak sometimes. They just moved, acted and reacted. They played with drive, with courage. They played like Jackson would have wanted them to.

John cleared his throat, took in a breath, and started to speak.

"Jackson saved my life. It might sound dramatic, but it's the truth. When we got to the police station, I saw Henry's Hummer there, and I wanted to leave right then, but Jackson said we had to talk to the police, offer to be character witnesses, anything so there could finally be some justice after everything they'd done to so many people. When the… shooting… started… I didn't know what to think. I hid under a bench in the waiting area. When Henry and Mark made it up front, Jackson jumped up and attacked Mark, and he was going to attack Henry when Henry… Henry… killed him. I saw… I saw…"

The blond eighteen-year-old's hands shook, and he gripped the podium tighter, only to feel his shoulders shaking instead. Tears streamed down his face, and John didn't know how long he stood there, wracked by guilt for hiding under a bench while Jackson bravely died trying to save everyone in the station. He had seen things. He'd watched a boy get his brains blown out across a police station wall, listened as a slaughter unfolded and all the while he had hidden… under… a _bench_.

For a moment, or a minute, or a year, John stood there, briefly forgetting where he even was. He could still hear the screams, the cries. He could still see the blood coating his hands. He could still feel the other hands, the hands of others reaching for him, grasping at him. Another person begging for his help. It wasn't enough. It would never be enough.

When he could speak again, John said, "I-I didn't know what Jackson was going to do. He didn't say a word to me. I guess maybe he never even planned it. Maybe he just… thought of it, did it on instinct. I don't know. What I do know is, I wish I had been as brave as Jackson was. Not just at the police station, but all the time. Henry and Mark were cruel, horrible people. I stood by and just… let them do it… year after year. Jackson showed up and told them, 'No! Not on my watch!' He stood up to things I should have stopped years ago. When I came back to the soccer team, Jackson took Scott's word about me, and just like that, we were friends. He didn't worry about what I was like before he ever met me. And he forgave me for… for being such a coward all this time. He held no grudges and he called me his friend."

"I don't know why Jackson had to go just when everyone in his life needed his strength and his courage the most. I can't see the fairness in it. It's not fair at all. He should be here with all of us, helping us deal with what happened, and showing us how much better the world is without Henry and Mark Evans. I hope that one day I can be even half as brave as he was. Maybe if I had been… maybe if I'd helped him none of this would've happened. I-I just think-"

John abruptly broke off what he was saying, staggered away from the podium. Tears blurred his vision so much that he tripped on his way down the steps. Just when he knew he was going to fall flat on his face, someone caught his arm, and John looked up and saw Cindy. She didn't say a word. She just hauled John up, led him back to his seat. Then she and Scott held him as John put his head in his hands and sobbed helplessly, like a child.

 **XX**

Julie glanced at the class portrait of Mark, a framed copy that he'd given her with the words "I love you" secretly written on the back, hidden by the back of the frame. In that Brooks Brothers suit, that red bowtie, Mark looked like the stunningly-handsome young gentleman he was.

Or had been.

He had always been so gentle. As strong and powerful as he was, as brutal as he could be as he won victory after victory in hockey and football, Mark had spoken kindly and gently to her. After so many vigorous sessions of lovemaking, Mark was always there, arms around her, speaking softly in her ear. He'd been so mature, so loving. At seventeen he'd accidentally fathered a child, but even then, Mark's greatness had won out and he had stood by Julie and helped her. He'd promised he would never leave.

That got Julie crying again, and she dabbed at her eyes with a tissue, trying to control herself. Mark was dead. No matter what horrible things he had supposedly done alongside Henry on the last day of his life, even if some part of it were true… he was still her Mark. He had loved her sincerely; Julie knew that. She had loved him right back, and they'd had a steamy, incredibly exciting hidden life together. They'd been so sure they'd be together officially in just a few more years. So sure.

Now… now it was all over. Alexander would have to grow up without his dad.

Julie couldn't even begin to comprehend the horrors people were now saying Henry and Mark Evans had carried out. It was impossible for Mark to have ever willingly done such an evil thing.

Maybe something had been wrong with Henry. Maybe he was the one who'd done whatever it was that had him called down to the police station in the first place. Mark- he must have gone along to protect his brother. Maybe Henry had sexually assaulted a girl, or even tried to rape her. Maybe he'd become convinced he was going to prison and decided to make a suicidal rush to escape.

And Mark… he had backed Henry's play rather than turn on his beloved sibling. All through the past year, anyone could see how close Henry and Mark were with each other. They were virtually two halves of the same person.

If Mark had been here, he would have told Julie to ease up, don't feel so bad. He'd have told her Alex was still here, their boy, and he needed his Mom to look after him. But if Mark had been here, none of this terrible pain and grief would have ever existed.

Down the hall, Alex started bawling. He'd done his share of it, too, in the past days. He, too, seemed to sense something terrible had happened, and that someone wonderful was gone. Along with so many others.

Julie got up and headed down to the baby's room, which Mark had paid so much to outfit with all he blankets, pillows, stuffed animals and other toys their son could desire. Alex was crying, batting at the side of his crib with his tiny fists.

At first, he twisted and squirmed when Julie tried to pick him up, and now the little fists were for her. Julie took him over to the rocking chair Mark had bought for this room, opened her bathrobe, and held Alex toward her chest. He protested at first, then settled down and started to feed.

The young mother breathed a sigh of relief. On the day it all happened, Alex had suddenly burst out into his worst crying fit yet. He'd wailed and cried, even screamed, as if in pain. Julie had run downstairs to help him, comfort him, but Alex was inconsolable. He'd cried for hours before falling into an exhausted sleep.

Terrifying as Alex's crying had been at that time- Julie really hadn't known what was happening to her baby- it was understandable in retrospect. Alex must have known somehow that something was happening to Dad. Some way or another, he'd sensed that Mark's life had been cut short.

If only Mark had known he didn't owe Henry so much that he had to go down with him. If only Henry hadn't done… whatever he'd done. If only Mark were alive, able to come into this room, put his arms around Julie, tell her everything was going to be all right.

If only.

 **XX**

After the news of what Henry and Mark had done, Lisa had realized she was done with high school. She couldn't have possibly kept up the charade with her Henry dead. Lisa didn't know what her parents had told the school, and she didn't care. After hearing Henry was gone, she had cried for three days.

It wasn't something that anyone but possibly Mom could understand. Lisa had dreamed about Henry Evans for years. She'd tried so hard just to get him to glance her way, look at her, talk to her. All of Lisa's happiest fantasies about dating Henry had come true, and Prom night had been the greatest night of her life. And that meant nobody knew Henry like Lisa had.

That, then, was exactly how Lisa knew Henry, her Henry, would never have killed all those people if he'd been healthy. Sure, he'd cared for himself flawlessly in every way he could, but his brain- Henry's brain had something wrong with it even he couldn't change. Lisa was sure it had been a tumor. And Mark had chosen to go down with Henry rather than turn on him.

None of it made any sense. It hurt so bad. Lisa wanted to die, but she had Henry's baby depending on her now. She and Henry had made that baby on the best night of her life, accident or no, and the memory of that was too strong to ignore.

A few days after Henry and Mark died, Lisa was in the kitchen when Dad came up and talked to her about the baby. That was a mistake.

 **XX**

"Lisa, I know- I know this is a hard time for you," Dad was saying, while Lisa ate some pickles off a plate, just standing there by the counter, weeping softly as she thought about how Henry would have wanted her to eat. She had cravings she had to satisfy, and Henry would have wanted her to eat.

"Uh-huh," Lisa managed to say, nodding.

"But… I think we need to remember that some things are better kept in place. Not everything has to change, even with what's happened. And that might be best for all of us, right now."

"Okay."

"So, what I'm saying is, Henry's idea for giving the baby up for adoption would still be the best-"

The plate slipped and shattered on the floor, and Lisa gaped at her father in horror and building rage.

"Did you just say- you still want me to _get rid of him_?"

"I didn't say it like that," Dad said carefully. "But, Lisa, you were just saying you're not ready to-"

"I'll _say_ what I'm _not ready for_!" Lisa screeched hysterically, her hands shaped into claws as she stalked toward her dad. "This is _my baby_! It's _Henry's_ baby! I'm _keeping_ our baby! I'm keeping him and _you can't stop me_!"

"Lisa-"

"You just want me to get rid of it because Henry _fucked_ me and- because it's from _him_! You never liked him! You're probably _glad_ he's dead!"

Dad had his hands up now. "Lisa, now hold on. Just hold on! Take a breath!"

"I don't care what they're saying about him! He was my boyfriend and I loved him! I still love him! You- you get out of here- just- just LEAVE ME ALONE!"

Lisa was sobbing, out of control and unable to help it. She looked for something to throw to make Dad get out of here, get out of this room and leave her alone with her grief. Instead, she turned and saw Mom, who spoke gently, soothingly.

"Lisa, what's going on? What's the problem? Your Dad loves you like I do. Just tell me what's wrong, baby, and we'll fix it."

"He wants to give my baby away!" Lisa cried, pointing an accusing finger at her dad without even glancing at him. "He always hated Henry!"

"Wait, Lisa- I thought that was the plan, wasn't it? Giving the baby up for-"

"No!" Lisa screamed. "I'm gonna keep him! He's mine! I'm his _mom_! He's all I have left of Henry and I'm keeping him and- and- that's _it_!"

Mom held out her arms, and Lisa threw herself into them. She hid her face against her mother's chest, still sobbing.

"Andrew," Mom said reproachfully, "I don't think Lisa has to be forced into any decisions on this."

"Christina, I'm not the bad guy here. Lisa's-"

"-Having a hard time is putting it lightly. Whatever the news says Henry did, he was a sweet boy to Lisa and she loved him. It was an accident that he got Lisa pregnant. And if she wants to keep the child and raise it as her own, I'm with her all the way."

Dad sighed. "I'm not going to fight either of you on this. I didn't mean to upset you, Lisa."

"Leemeelone!" Lisa said, still crying in her mom's arms.

"Drew, you better go."

"I wasn't-"

"It's okay. I don't blame you. Just let me handle this."

"All right," Dad said, and he left the room.

Lisa cried for a while longer, and when she was done she went upstairs, turned on the shower, looked at some of her pictures of Henry, and cried some more. She'd loved him. She'd loved him so much. If he could have spoken to her right now, he'd have asked her to keep their baby, to raise him and give him a chance. Thinking about that, about how raising this baby was what she wanted more than anything else, cut briefly through Lisa's misery and grief, and filled her with an almost frighteningly-strong feeling of determination and strength.

 **XX**

Andrew Cadiz leaned forward in his leather swivel chair, put his hands on his desk, and sighed as he dropped his phone with a clatter. Brian D'Aramitz, his best friend, was losing his shit. Everyone was. Reporters and cops were fucking everywhere. Henry and Mark Evans had shot up the police station down on Main Street a few days ago, and it was like the goddamned world had ended.

The carefully-groomed successor-to-be, Andrew, was now avoiding everyone he could and staying off the grid. It was all he could think of to do, and it was what he had told Brian to do. He felt like a fugitive now.

Privately, Andrew didn't believe Mark and Henry would have just randomly killed a bunch of people and run off to die in that creepy old mansion on the north side of town as it burned to the ground. That sounded like total bullshit. But the fact was, the Evans brothers and a hell of a lot of other people were dead, and being associated with the brothers had gone from being an indescribable honor to being an embarrassment and liability.

 _Shit, I don't know what this even means_ , Andrew thought with despair. Just thinking about it gave him a headache. Dad had offered to send him to Waynflete School instead of Chamberlain, or even Gaiten Academy in New Hampshire- Dad's old school. Andrew had never imagined wanting to leave, not with the amazing senior year he'd had coming. But staying off the grid, maybe going somewhere else entirely, for the upcoming summer sounded mighty attractive all of a sudden. Maybe Andrew would ask Brian to come with him and they'd just dump this whole thing on someone else and graduate together from some boarding school.

At least that would mean not having to explain anything. They could just start over clean. No embarrassing questions, no odd looks, no people in the halls wondering if you knew what they really were, wondering how you couldn't have known since no one had been closer to them.

Jason Morgan was on TV all the time now, the modest, unassuming hero. Andrew knew that was bullshit. That showboating son of a bitch was exactly what Andrew wanted to be in so many ways, yet even the redhead felt some revulsion at the way Jason was seizing his chance to have his moment of glory at last.

"You stupid, stupid, stupid motherfucker," Andrew muttered, shaking his head. "Goddamn you." He wasn't sure if he meant Jason Morgan or himself.

"Andrew?"

Andrew jumped, sitting upright. "Oh, uh, sorry, Mikey. I was just…" Then Andrew really looked, saw what a wreck his brother was, the tears streaming down his face. "Hey, come here, man."

"No!" Mikey said, and the younger teen shoved his brother away, stunning him.

"Huh?" Andrew managed to say.

" _You tell me_!" Mikey shouted suddenly. "Don't you LIE TO ME! Did you know? Did you know what they were? They were my heroes! I wanted to be like them, like _you_! Did you know? _Did_ you? They killed Eddie's dad!"

"Mikey-"

"Answer me, Andrew! You TELL ME! Did you know?"

"No!" Andrew blurted out. "I swear to you, man, I-I didn't know!" He paused. "I always said you could talk to me. Always. Why've you been hiding from me?"

"Because- because- I don't know why!" Mikey yelled. "I just know- I know Eddie's dad's dead because Henry and Mark killed him! They killed all those people and…" Mikey staggered away, wiped at his eyes, then turned and jabbed a finger accusingly at his older brother. "YOU _KNEW_!" he screamed. " _TELL_ ME! _TELL ME YOU KNEW_!"

"I can't tell you that!" Andrew shouted.

Mikey ran forward and shoved at Andrew with both hands, almost knocking him over. Andrew tripped over the wheels of his chair and the two wrestled furiously. Mikey's hard work at the gym had paid off, and he put up a tremendous fight. "You knew!" he yelled again and again. "You knew!"

"I didn't know!" Andrew yelled as he finally pinned Mikey in place. His breath caught, and Andrew realized he was starting to cry himself. "Now, you STOP it! I am your brother! I've _never_ lied to you! I love you! Don't DO this to me!"

"You _knew_! You _had_ to know!" Mikey shrieked defiantly, straining his voice until it cracked.

"Why the hell are you so sure?" Andrew shouted back. "Answer me that!"

Mikey stared, momentarily dumbfounded. "But- but- how _couldn't_ you know?" he asked.

"How the fuck was I supposed to know about this?" Andrew demanded, blinking furiously, determined to be strong and manly and not show tears. He was ashamed of his weakness and unable to help it. "How was I _supposed_ to know, Mikey?"

"You know _everything_!" Mikey blurted. "I-I always, I always- you- you'd _always_ help me. You knew everything! How couldn't you know about _this_?!"

Andrew saw it, then. The confusion, the pain, anger, and hurt. Mikey was so sure of his big brother's wisdom, that Andy Cadiz knew everything, that the only possible explanation was that his brother was in on what Henry and Mark had done.

All those years of little Mikey growing up, confiding in Andrew, admitting all his worries, his fears. Staying up late so Andrew could explain the birds and bees to him, asking for dating and more recently sexual advice. Never once had Andrew failed Mikey or let him down. The result was an image of infallibility in Mikey's mind that couldn't make sense of what was happening.

"I didn't know, Mikey," Andrew said again, and he let his brother go. He got up, staggered over to his bed, and sat down, holding his head in his hands so Mikey wouldn't see his tears. Mikey sat down next to him.

"Why'd this happen?" Mikey asked quietly. "Why? Eddie won't talk to me anymore. I didn't do anything. Why?"

"I don't know," Andrew said. "I don't know."

"I'm sorry," Mikey blurted out. "I didn't mean it. What I said. I'm so sorry, man."

Andrew tried talking to his brother, tried to explain it was all right, but now the pain of feeling like he'd betrayed or hurt his brother was making Mikey's anguish that much worse. He wailed and sobbed, and Andrew put his arms around him, talked to him, let Mikey hide his face against his big brother's chest.

 _Why_ , Mikey wanted to know. Andrew had a feeling it was gonna be a long time before somebody found the answer. If anyone ever did.

 **XX**

"Carter, we're going now, honey! Should be back in an hour!"

"Bye."

Carter lay on the couch in his room, staring at nothing until the moment the front door closed, and Mom and Dad were out of the house. It had taken so many hours of careful acting to convince them that their boy was finally pulling himself together, that he was done sobbing helplessly. That he was okay.

But what they didn't get was that Carter's life was over. He'd failed his hero, his idol, his fearless, infallible leader. Henry had trusted him. He'd said, "Fix this, make it right" and Carter had promised he would. But he'd failed. Now everyone was saying Henry Evans was a monster, a murderer, that he had killed all these people before dying in that fire at the old Whitmore place.

None of it would've happened if Carter had just done his job and controlled the rumor mill. He'd held on. Carter had held on and fought the stories that Henry and Mark had tried to kill Chris Marshall with everything he had. It wasn't enough. Not even close.

Failing Henry meant social disgrace and humiliation at best, and a beating like John LaFleur had gotten. But to fail like this, on so great a scale that Henry was dead because you hadn't served him well like you'd promised you would…

When Hitler had fallen, a lot of SS officers had shot themselves because with their hero dead, their lives were forfeit. Carter had read about that once, because he knew Henry liked books about the Nazis and World War II and everything. And it had given Carter an idea.

Only after waiting patiently for ten long minutes did Carter decide that Mom and Dad really had gone out, that they hadn't forgotten their keys or something like that. Once he was satisfied they had, in fact, left, Carter got up and moved with astonishing speed.

There was no coming back from the way he'd failed. No redemption. Henry Evans was dead. His brother was dead. Carter had fucked up. He had one way to repent, one way to show how badly he wanted to make things right. There was just enough time to put the plan into action.

Carter got up, stripped to his underwear, and briefly paused to admire the incredibly fit body he'd earned through all his hard work this year. He'd worked out with Henry, hung out with Henry! How proud he'd once been of how strong and fit he was getting, of how the way he styled his blond hair was near-identical to how Henry styled his!

None of it meant anything anymore.

Taking his hand-tailored suit out of the closet, Carter dressed in the same magnificent outfit he'd worn to Prom. Henry had looked over, seen him, nodded approvingly. Carter had gotten laid like crazy that night. Carter put on a red tie, same as he'd been wearing for Prom.

The original plan had been to go for it dressed in his football uniform, but the police were going crazy over everything Henry and Mark had touched, so the locker room was "unavailable until further notice". Christ. Well, dressing in his best was the next-best way to go.

Once he'd pulled his well-shined leather dress shoes on and added the black jacket to his spotless white dress shirt, Carter went to his closet and got the rope he'd stolen from the school gym equipment room when nobody was looking.

Then he got out the little sign he'd made, and hung it around his neck. He got the note he'd written to explain what his actions, and stuck it in his pocket.

Carter felt his palms growing cold and sweaty, his heart beating faster.

He was scared.

If he didn't move now, he'd chicken out. And Mom and Dad would find him standing in his room, a length of rope in his hand.

 _I can't back out. I'm a loser. I need to end this before I can fuck up something else. I need to die. Maybe there's an afterlife and I can tell Henry I'm sorry. Maybe he'll even forgive me. Maybe_.

But if Henry, in his immense power, had somehow taken over the afterlife- Now, _that_ would be a thing to see!- and he rejected Carter's plea, and sent Carter to suffer in Hell for eternity, then Carter planned to bow his head and accept his idol's judgement. An eternity of punishment was no less than he deserved.

Carter had looked some things up that were very helpful, very relevant to what he now intended to do. He knew just how important it was that he break his neck when the rope caught him. And how he could make sure he did that.

It was time for one last moment of doing it right. One last chance to prove how loyal to Henry he really was.

Carter turned, left the room he had slept in since he was a baby, and walked out into the hall.

Then he fastened one end of the rope to the railing overlooking the first floor.

 **XX**

John LaFleur gaped in disbelief at the legions of press, the black Suburbans and Tahoes all around, the men in black suits and sunglasses. They were real. All of this was real. The President of the United States had come to Chamberlain High School to speak at the memorial service today. Memorial, and awards service, John amended.

That was what President Bill Clinton had said over the phone. Several individuals whose extraordinary actions and character had stood out in one of the nation's darkest moments in recent memory were to be honored for their actions.

"John, I want you to know that a recommendation for you to be recognized for what you did at the police station has come across my desk. It's endorsed by the Chief of Police in Portland, Maine, the Superintendent of the Maine State Police, and the Governor of Maine. What you should know is that I have just signed it. You have been awarded the Presidential Medal of Valor, and I will be presenting it to you on June 1st."

"But I didn't do anything," John blurted, breaking his stunned silence.

Clinton had chuckled then. "Well, you may feel that way, but a few people disagree. I look forward to meeting you in person, John."

"Yes, sir, Mr. President," John had managed to say.

Now, he was in the mid-row seat of Dad's brand-new Suburban, listening to the big diesel engine growl as they approached the school. John swallowed hard and cleared his throat. He had sat bolt upright the whole way here and could not seem to relax for even a second.

Someone gently touched one of John's hands, which had been fidgeting idly in his lap. He jumped and looked at Cindy.

"Hey."

"Hey, you," she said. Gently, she took his left hand in hers, and with her right brushed at the swirl-styled, dyed-blond hair John had so far chosen to keep. "You don't need to worry so much."

"Just nervous," John admitted.

"I'll be there with you. All the way," Cindy promised.

"What'd I do to deserve you?" John murmured, hoping Mom and Dad wouldn't hear.

"I think you know," Cindy said, and kissed him on the lips.

John's pink-tinged cheeks flushed crimson, and he struggled to find a reply once they separated. Instead, Dad stopped the Suburban, and a man in black with sunglasses opened the door while his partner stood close by.

"Mr. LaFleur," he said. "Welcome. Please come with us."

"We're just going to go park," Mom said. "We'll be along soon."

John got out, holding hands with Cindy. She was strong, stronger than him, yet she always said he was the stronger one, the one who held them both up. Maybe they just held each other up. No matter what, John felt calmed by her presence, like he was incomplete unless she was around. He checked his necktie to make sure it was straight, hoped his suit and shoes looked good enough, and walked toward his high school.

Once he got inside, John was shocked and upset to see Jason Morgan there. The brown-haired youth looked like he'd spent a thousand dollars just getting his hair styled and conditioned, nevermind the hand-tailored suit or the mirror-shined shoes, or the wine-red tie. He glanced at John.

"Oh," he said with obvious disdain, "it's _you_."

"Yeah," John said. "It's _me_."

"Don't you boys do anything stupid," Cindy hissed at them. "You be quiet if you can't say anything nice."

Jason blinked. "You can't tell me what to do."

John's temper flared. "Don't you _talk_ to her like that!"

"Just try and stop me, _hero_!"

"That's enough," one of the men in black interrupted. "Mr. Morgan, Mr. LaFleur, you are both guests of honor today. If you cannot get along, then don't talk to each other."

John and Jason both grumbled something in agreement, and they were soon left alone again as the various agents and officials made arrangements and prepared for the upcoming ceremony.

"I'm not gonna let you provoke me," Jason said finally. "I'm just not gonna let you."

"Fine," John said. "Agreed." He held out his hand. After staring at him for a few moments, Jason briefly shook it.

"I still think you're a fucking prick," Jason added, keeping his voice low. "One of these days people are gonna _know_ what a little faggot you are."

"Cindy begs to differ," John retorted. "But, uh, don't think I hold this against you. I'm not mad. It must really suck getting your ass handed to you in front of the whole school… by a faggot."

Then he blew Jason a kiss and headed for one of the water fountains. Cindy tried to glare at him disapprovingly as she followed him, but she turned away and John was pretty sure she was trying not to laugh.

 **XX**

The auditorium had never been this packed. John shifted uneasily in his seat, wondering how on Earth someone had screwed up badly enough to make some kind of a hero out of him. Over a thousand people listened intently as President Bill Clinton walked up to the microphone set up on this stage, and began to speak.

"Thank you for coming, ladies and gentlemen. We are gathered here today to honor the many lives lost on May 18, 1999, to the actions of Henry and Mark Evans. We may never understand why they did what they did, why they took so many from us, so many still in the prime of life. But we do know one thing: those two were no heroes." Gesturing to the handful of seats set aside for the honored guests, Clinton said, "These are the heroes."

Numerous seats near John were empty, draped in black, a framed picture carefully placed on each one. John couldn't bear to look at the one with Jackson Lee on it.

"There is no way I can express how deeply saddened I was when I heard of the events here in Portland, Maine, still just a few weeks ago. It was not even a month after the shocking events in Littleton. Our nation has had enough domestic tragedy for several lifetimes, and I can only pray that such events as these never come our way again. So many have been lost, yet here in Portland, heroism and selflessness were displayed sufficiently to make uncommon valor a common virtue."

John felt like such a fool. He wanted to interrupt the President, say there'd been a mistake. There was something off about all of his. John hadn't done anything. He wasn't even in law enforcement. What was he doing here?

"I have been greatly humbled by the stories of courage that have reached me in the White House since the events of May 18," Clinton went on. "The presenting of awards to honor those extraordinary actions was never in question. Before I begin to present the awards, I believe it is only fitting to begin by stating the name of each individual we have lost, each life taken in an act of unspeakable evil. Captain Bruce Andrews, City of Portland Police. Corporal Matthew Brodinski, Maine State Police. Sergeant Matt Baker, City of Portland Police. Officer Gregory Camden, City of Portland Police. Lieutenant William Cressner, City of Portland Police. Sergeant Danielle Laszenski, City of Portland Police. Jackson Lee, senior at Chamberlain High School. Detective Emory Parola, Maine State Police…"

The list of names went on. It went on far too long. John could not believe the sheer enormity of it, the depravity and evil that had gone into this. Henry and Mark had done so much, caused such pain to so many people through the course of their lives. Of course they'd had to inflict one more terrible agony on everyone they could before they finally went.

John didn't hear the names of heroes. He saw faces, people… he saw lives that could've been saved. Had he been less of a coward, maybe none of this would've happened.

Then, suddenly, Jason was elbowing him. "Dude, get up," he hissed.

Several awards had already been given while John was sitting there obliviously. Next of kin, seated front-row before the stage, held medals. It looked like every police officer in Portland was here, and ditto for the Maine State Police. John stood up and took a few steps forward. The blinding glare of the lights was too much, the crowd of over a thousand was too much, being inches from the President on live television was too much. Yet here he was all the same.

"The Presidential Medal of Valor, established by Executive Order 13161 on June 29, 1998, is to be presented for 'Actions above and beyond the call of duty; and exhibiting exceptional courage, extraordinary decisiveness and presence of mind; or an unusual swiftness of action, regardless of his or her personal safety, in an attempt to save or protect human life.'" Clinton paused. "I would like everyone here, everyone watching this, to look at this young man. In the midst of tragedy he acted. In the face of danger, he showed courage. In the face of horror, he demonstrated immense personal strength and persevered. The number of fallen officers might have been much higher were it not for John LaFleur acting and moving as quickly as he did. His medal's citation reads:

"For valor and extreme courage in the face of extraordinary danger, the President of the United States takes great pleasure in bestowing the Presidential Medal of Valor upon John Myron LaFleur. When faced with the attack upon the 10th Precinct of the City of Portland Police on May 18, 1999, John LaFleur acted immediately. Seeing the numerous dead and wounded left behind in the immediate aftermath of the massacre, he quickly moved to aid those still alive. Rapidly going from room to room and person to person, he swiftly determined who needed help the most, utilizing all the resources available in the station to help him in his efforts.

He offered words of encouragement to every individual he helped, enough so that one severely wounded officer described him as an 'Angel from Heaven' and credited him exclusively with ensuring his survival and that of over a dozen others who were critically wounded in the attack. In the span of just ten minutes, John LaFleur aided more than twenty fallen officers, troopers, and civilian employees, and through his efforts served as an inspiration and beacon of hope when all hope seemed to be lost. He inspired further life-saving efforts, bought time for first responders to arrive, and ensured that countless injuries were not fatal ones. His efforts are in the highest keepings of all that is selfless, and exemplify what George VI of the United Kingdom meant when he said that 'The highest of distinctions is service to others.'"

President Clinton turned and received the medal from an aide. It was a gilt, blue-enameled, upside-down star, with the Great Seal of the United States on a gold disc at its center. It hung from a gold "V", which attached to the dark blue neck ribbon. Its outer edges were lined with a single red and white stripe, and gold fabric gleamed at the center of the ribbon.

John stood at what he figured was the position of attention, unsure of what else he was supposed to do. He made a slight bow as President Clinton hung the medal around his neck. Its weight surprised John, and made hm wonder yet again why any of this was happening. It was all so much more than he deserved.

"Congratulations, John," Clinton said warmly, offering his hand. John took it, tried to protest, but just managed a small "Mm." He was completely overwhelmed.

Clinton returned to the podium. "Next, also at the unanimous request and recommendation of the City of Portland and the State of Maine, I am honored to present the Presidential Citizen's Medal to Jackson Edward Lee: 'For exemplary deeds performed for his country and his fellow citizens. On May 18, 1999, during the attack on the 10th Precinct of the City of Portland Police, Jackson Lee was present by happenstance, but his actions were of the highest possible courage and moral caliber. Quickly realizing what was happening around him, Jackson Lee took cover in the precinct's waiting area and directed others around him to do the same. He maintained a calming presence for the other civilians present, and when Henry Evans rounded a corner with a stolen police sidearm, he acted immediately. Completely disregarding his own personal safety, Jackson Lee rapidly disarmed Mark Evans and was on the verge of disarming Henry Evans when the latter inflicted a mortal gunshot wound. Jackson Lee showed courage, both physical and moral, beyond measure. His actions forced Henry and Mark Evans to make a hasty exit from the precinct, enabling John LaFleur to begin his vital life-saving efforts. No words are more fitting than those found in the Holy Bible, Isaiah 6:8: 'Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, "Whom shall I send? And who will go for us?" And I said, "Here am I. Send me."

Clinton paused. "Jackson Lee's actions are such that in addition to this award, he has been declared an honorary United States Marine by the personal order of the Commandant of the Marine Corps. His family has requested that, owing to his close personal friendship with and high personal respect for John Myron LaFleur, that it should be he who receives the award on Jackson's behalf."

John stared at the President, barely able to even think at this point. He managed a glance at his parents, who were losing it right along with Cindy. Major General Lee stared fiercely back at John, but not in anger. It was a stare of pride and respect. The fearless old warrior clearly had wanted this no other way. John managed to hold out his hands and receive the cased medal. He felt completely undeserving of all of this, but if everyone else disagreed, he would at least try to carry himself well and make them proud.

 **XX**

"Lastly, but in no way least, I am honored to present the Presidential Citizen's Medal to Jason Pierce Morgan."

Jason stood and stepped smartly forward so he was directly to John's left.

"When Henry and Mark Evans made their failed bid to escape the consequences of their actions," Clinton said, "there were three young men who just happened to be in the way. Three more innocent lives that Henry and Mark Evans callously endangered. On May 18, 1999, Anthony Summers' sport utility vehicle was struck on its rear left side by Henry Evans' vehicle, which was moving at a speed of more than 70 miles per hour. The impact caused Summers' vehicle to roll, and a fire caused by sparks and severed fuel lines started soon after. Despite being injured and initially trapped in the vehicle after the crash, Jason Morgan extricated himself and returned for both of his friends. He went back, not for himself, but for Anthony Summers and Christopher Marshal, both of whom are present in the audience today to see him receive this award. Their lives were preserved by actions Jason Morgan took at great risk to himself, and he, no less than the other heroes being recognized today, has and will inspire others by his example."

President Clinton pinned the medal just below Jason's breast pocket, shook hands with Jason and congratulated him, then spoke some more. Christ, but these politicians never stopped talking. It would have annoyed Jason, but he felt strangely emotional. He kept blinking, telling himself it was something in the air, some dust had gotten in his eyes. Jason could see his parents and even his turd older brother looking happy and proud, and next to them, Tony and Chris. Both teens were still visibly battered- each wore bandages and had an arm in a cast- but they couldn't have been happier. Chris, in particular, couldn't seem to stop beaming and trying to wave and get Jason's attention. Jason wanted to acknowledge him, but didn't dare to. Not here.

Finally, the crowd applauded, and Jason knew that dork LaFleur was struggling to get it under control. That frigging dust in his eye. Jason was gonna cuss up a storm about the janitors when he got out of here. For now, he felt happy, proud, and strangely humbled. He saw Tony clapping for all he was worth, and Chris was _crying_ , for Chrissakes! It didn't make Jason emotional to see that, to realize he really had saved his best friends. That didn't make him emotional at all.

 **XX**

John sat down on a boulder off to the side of one of the long, winding trails that led around Douthat State Park, this one with a beautiful view, high above the lake. Even just in a pair of khaki shorts and hiking shoes, John felt like he was overheating. He pulled his backpack off, swatted away some more gnats, and drank deeply from one of his water bottles.

"Hey, handsome," Cindy said, sitting down beside him.

"Hey," John breathed.

"Not getting tired, are you, cadet?"

"Not me, not yet."

"They gave us both a full scholarship. The Superintendent himself. Honored by the President, now the boss of the Institute… how's that feel?"

"Like I should ask our parents and then drive all the way down to Virginia to get away from everything," John replied honestly.

"They love you, John."

"No, they love what I did. Or what they think I did. I wish people would stop."

Cindy started gently massaging John's shoulders. "Do you want _me_ to stop?"

"No…"

She started nibbling at John's right ear, the one that hadn't been clipped by a bullet. He hated it and loved it at the same time whenever she did that. "Oh! Oh. Ooh! Ouch!"

"Did you want me to stop?"

"No, please, do it some more," John said quickly, before he could stop himself. "Oh, wow. Yeah. You know you- _ooh!_ \- can't do that at VMI, right?"

"We'll just make up for it once we're not Rats anymore."

"No, I mean- they don't allow PDA there."

"That's what private spaces are for. We'll find them."

"Cindy-"

She nibbled at his ear some more.

"Are we gonna hike _every_ trail in this park?" John asked.

"I need you good and sweaty, John. I wanna see my boyfriend's big muscles gleaming and glistening in the sun."

"Okay… but… we could just stay at the cabin and-"

"I was thinking here in the woods. Uphill, maybe behind a tree."

"Cindy!" John blurted, blushing furiously.

"Oh, please, John. You never have enough. You're just a horny boy and I love you."

"Well, uh, I- just- you always want more! I'm not a machine, you know!"

Cindy laughed, tossing her flowing black hair over her shoulder. "You're so hot when you get flustered."

"Why do you like teasing me so much?" John asked almost pleadingly.

"It's fun."

"Well, thank you for being honest," John grumbled.

"And hot. And amazing in bed. Or in your car. Or my car. Or out in the woods."

"Cindy!" John exclaimed, feeling his face burning. "I- um- but- in the woods? Again?"

"There's a nice patch of moss a ways uphill, behind this big old tree. Nobody'll ever see us up there."

"Yeah, but they're gonna _hear_ us."

"And whose fault is that?" Cindy asked. "It's all you, John. Because you're so amazing at it."

"I just want to make you happy."

"And you're amazing at it." Cindy stood him up, put both of his hands around her bare midriff, gently rubbing her belly. "John, what if I got pregnant?"

"What?" John yelped, jumping as if struck. "Huh? Wait, you- but- are you? But I wore-"

"Shh," Cindy said. "I meant, have you ever thought about trying?"

"We- we can't-"

"What if I asked you to marry me, and said I wanted kids?"

"I-I guess… we can… um… have… as many as you want."

"So you'd say yes if I asked you?" Cindy asked, looking up at him hopefully.

"I'm never marrying anyone else," John said. "Just you."

"Well, we've still got to wait a few years, those silly VMI rules and all," Cindy said. She took his hand. "But… if you want to have a little fun… that patch of moss is still up there."

"What's so great about moss?"

"Let's go and find out."

John smiled, giving up. "Okay. You win."

"I love you, John."

"I love you, too, Cindy."

 **XX**

Chris Marshal giggled like a kid as he hastily undressed in the little poolside bathroom, listening to the shouts of his nickname, "Skinny-Dipper" or "SD" outside. Thanks to his continued antics and some trouble he'd gotten in here at the University of Alabama, the Alpha Rho chapter of the Theta Nu Episolon fraternity had allowed him in alongside the other rushing freshman, Tony and Jason included, but with the strict provision that "Skinny-Dipper" or "SD" be Chris' official nickname within the chapter. And that any referral to Chris, Jason and Tony must consist of calling them "The Three Musketeers."

It wasn't even like Chris could keep track of how many affiliated fraternities and sororities had people here at this pool party. He wasn't even sure who owned the enormous house it was attached to, beyond that the fraternity had something to do with it.

Getting out of dress clothes in a hurry was difficult, and Chris knew he was messing them up. He'd have to get this stuff dry-cleaned. Maybe I'll get the fuck outta town like the Evans family did back in June or whatever, Chris thought, and that set him off giggling again.

Finally, Chris yanked his shoes off, pulled off his socks, and pulled down his pants and underwear. He kicked it all into a pile, then opened the door of the bathroom, where he was greeted by a roar of approval from the guys, and delighted cheering from the girls. Chris had been with a few of them already. Naturally, he'd told everyone in the fraternity every detail, just like the girls had done with their sororities. It was practically a rule.

Despite feeling still just a little nervous and afraid, Chris let out a whoop and raised both his hands high to display the "V for Victory" sign from World War II, or the "Peace" sign, if you went with its meaning from the 1960s. Instead of letting his fear show, Chris strutted about like he was King of Alabama or something.

"Skinny Dipper! _Skinny Dipper_! SKINNY DIPPER!" they shouted, chanting it over and over.

"Yes, that's me!" Chris shouted back. "Guys, I will be signing autographs later today. Girls, if you don't have an appointment already, sorry; I'm booked 'till next week!"

The crowd of college students just loved that, and they cheered and hollered as Chris, the one chosen to do the honors, formally opened the pool party by jumping in and swimming twenty laps back and forth, one for each new pledge admitted to the Alpha Rho chapter for the fall of 1999.

As he got out, Jason and Tony were there, along with Michael Tillman, the chapter president. Tony and Jason each handed Chris a cold beer, and Mike Tillman shook his hand.

"You know, SD," Mike said, "if my dick was that small I wouldn't be so proud of it."

"I think you're just jealous!" Chris blurted, egged on by the buzz he already had going. "I'm getting more than I even have time for!"

"Jason, Tony, take care of this guy. I think we got a class president in the making right here. Chris, come find me later. We're gonna talk about your future at Alabama and do some serious drinking."

Chris straightened up and saluted. "Yes, sir, Mr. President, sir!"

"Oh, and put your underwear on when you go in the house, would you? You can do your thing here at the pool."

Chris laughed. "My thing's got plenty to do; are you sure the pool is okay for that?"

Mike laughed. "Christ, man. You Three Musketeers are some weird guys. Don't overdo it. That beer's not cheap and, I forgot to check some ID's at the door, you understand?"

"Yeah, Mike," Tony assured him.

"Don't worry," Jason added.

Chris threw his arms around his best friends' shoulders as Mike left. A couple of stunning beauties in bikinis walked by, giving the three boys looks of frank interest and speculation. Then they smiled at Chris.

"Hey, Skinny-Dipper," one of them said.

"Hey, beautiful," Chris replied.

Jason watched the girls as they walked away. "Damn. You see that?"

"Hard to miss," Tony commented.

"I still can't believe this dork finally got laid," Jason quipped. "What're they even thinking? I'm _obviously_ the one they want."

Chris leaned in and kissed Jason on the cheek, drawing hoots of laughter from some of the older chapter members. Jason swore violently and tried to swing at him, but Chris ducked and jumped in the pool to escape. Tony casually put a hand between Jason's shoulder blades and pushed him in. Then Roland Duvall, one of the other freshmen, ran up and kicked Tony in, only to fall in himself.

Chris made a show of trying to get away from Jason, who kept grabbing him and dunking him until Tony put a stop to it. The three of them eventually moved off to the side as others got in, and Chris couldn't seem to keep a smile off his face.

"I'm glad I'm here," he said to Jason and Tony. "I'm glad I look just like you guys now." It was true, too; he was now lifting exactly the same weights as Jason and Tony, and had recently topped Jason for a personal best on the bench-press.

"Muscles can't change that face you got," Jason retorted.

"I love you guys," Tony said.

"Whatever," Jason insisted, still trying to deny it. "I can't believe I'm still hanging out with you guys."

"Thanks for everything, guys," Chris said to both of them. "Thank you so much."

"Well, you're welcome," Jason said. He sighed, then adde "You guys are pretty cool to have for best friends."

"Oh, he actually said it!" Chris yelled suddenly. "He said it! I'm his best friend!"

That set Jason off again, and he got Tony to help throw Chris in the pool, barely missing several of their pledge brothers. The whole afternoon and into the evening, Chris was the one everybody wanted to meet, but he wouldn't allow it if they hadn't introduced themselves to Jason and Tony first. Unless, of course, the new face was female.

Upperclassmen shook Chris' hand and praised him, girls eyed him appreciatively, and Jason and Tony were there almost constantly, being good wingmen. His pledge brothers treated him like a rock star, and incredibly even Jason, who had been decorated by the President, and Tony, who was cooler than ever, seemed to admire Chris and look up to him.

It was the proudest day of Chris' life. He'd lived the dream he'd been after during senior year and surpassed it. Now he was the one guys envied, he was the one already teaching others in the weight room. He was so busy with his social and romantic life that his weekly meetings with his trauma counselor barely made it on the schedule. Maybe one day they wouldn't be needed anymore, but for now, they were a well-kept secret.

Chris didn't regret anything. He just wished he'd met his best friends sooner. Still, if lost time was their only problem as a trio, they were doing a damn good job of making up for it. Just one year as Jason and Tony's friend had been incredible. Chris couldn't wait to find out what the next four would be like.

Henry and Mark Evans had tried to take all of this from him, from Jason, and from Tony. They'd tried to murder Chris and failed. Chris looked forward to living a long, happy life, finding some beautiful woman to make a whole bunch of babies with and then bringing them to hang out with Tony and Jason's kids. Life had never held so much promise for Chris. He'd never looked forward to it more.

It was important, on a day like this, to remember he almost hadn't been this lucky.

* * *

 **A/N: 12-11-2018.**

 **Completed the second half of the original, single chapter I had intended to add for "The Downfall". I wish to again thank AM83220, phorosz, and fear2breathe for all their assistance with writing this story.**

 **This is a 10,000+ word chapter, much 1-2k over the 8-9k limit I am trying to work with, but it just has to be allowed in this case. Ironically, I just said in the *last* chapter that I wanted to avoid 10K word chapters.  
**

 **The Presidential Medal of Valor exists in a minor AU to our world. Originally created by the same Executive Order I specified in late June 2000, not late June 1998, it was originally called the Presidental Medal of Valor for Public Safety Officers. It was renamed the Public Safety Officer Medal of Valor in 2001. As the name indicates, it is a federal award intended to parallel the Medal of Honor that recognizes extraordinary eroism by law enforcement, fire, or EMS/EMT personnel. In this AU, the award was created two years earlier as a general-purpose award for extraordinary heroism by civilians, or by military personnel outside of combat. Same criteria as the United Kingdom's George Cross. The PSOMV technically ranks below the Presidential Citizen's Medal and the Presidential Medal of Freedom, but it is a highly-prestigious award nonetheless and I have never seen its being third in order of precedence much emphasized.**

 **AM83220 suggested that since Mark and Henry's sons will both grow up without their fathers, and thus not guided and prepared to succeed them the way Henry and Mark wanted, it might be interesting to have a look at the two of them and what their lives might be like. I intend to depict the two of them in a brief Chapter 8, which will fully conclude this story, but that's more of an epilogue versus the two-chapter aftermath. Anyway. Hope you enjoyed reading and feel free to leave a review.**


	8. Chapter 8- Epilogue

**Chapter 8- Epilogue**

 **XX**

* * *

Alexander knew this was his last chance.

This was the last appointment his babysitter/tutor had with him before he left for boarding school. Gaiten Academy in New Hampshire. Mom's idea. Alexander's grades had won him a nearly full-ride scholarship. It was boys-only, but there were girls in town, and at some girls-only boarding school nearby.

Still, the one who thought Alex was listening as she prattled on about the finer points of grammar as he sat there on his bed, blue Nike t-shirt that was a size too small emphasizing his powerful, well-defined muscles… she was fine. Alex had been attracted to her from day one, and deliberately worked to wear muscle shirts or find excuses to take his shirt off around her. It actually made his tutor a little uncomfortable to see how fit and handsome the auburn-haired twelve-year-old was, and Alex knew that and loved it.

It also made her 'uncomfortable' that she had to give Alexander everything he wanted whenever she was here, and Mom was out. Mom was an idiot. She thought Alex 'liked' his tutor. He did, but only as a favorite toy. His only regret was that her torment would soon end.

Alex had begun 'growing up' at age nine, and was greatly amused that it took until he was eleven for Mom to notice and give him "the talk". By then, Alex had already raped a local middle school girl and convinced another to "have some fun" in the woods with him during the summer.

Alex's tutor and babysitter was a senior at Chamberlain High, where Mom taught science classes. Her body was irresistible to Alex, and that was why he'd figured out where she lived, where her parents worked, everything, gotten a knife and promised to kill her and gut her parents and two kid brothers like fish if she didn't put out. So, whenever Alex demanded it, she performed 'favors' while Mom was out, let Alex 'relax'. He had amusing little euphemisms for everything.

Finally, after twenty minutes of listening to bullshit he already knew, Alex interrupted her. "Shut up," he ordered. "Take your clothes off. I wanna relax."

She shuddered instantly, and Alex leaned over and saw she was crying.

"Please," she begged him.

"You know what I'll do if you don't."

"Please-"

Alex reached into his backpack, pulled out a switchblade and snapped it open. "Last chance," he said calmly. "Or I cut you open and cook you in the oven."

The fact was that Alex figured cannibalism was pretty gross and had no intention of actually doing it, but it sure didn't look that way to her! She wept and pleaded, but she knew the drill by now. She undressed, closed Alex's bedroom door, and lay on his bed. Alex quickly stripped and spent the next hour having her. He was tall for his age, extremely fit, able to last a long time. He enjoyed himself. He didn't bother wearing condoms, because she was "on the pill" and had been warned what would he would do if she conceived.

That was the one problem Alex had with his dead Dad. Mom had told him all about Mark Evans last year, and Alex thought old Dad sounded pretty cool… except for how he'd gotten careless while banging his science teacher and fathered a child with her. Instead of kill her or at least the stupid accidental baby, he'd stuck around and helped her! Alex didn't want any fucking kids to take care of. Not anytime soon. He just wanted the pleasure his body experienced whenever he did or received a sexual act.

Once Alex was satisfied, he walked her down the hall and watched her take a shower, scrubbing away any evidence. Alex watched her calmly. She cried and begged him some more, but he just gestured with the knife and told her to keep going. Begging never worked. Pleading never worked. Alex had no pity, no room in his heart. He had never, not once since his birth in 1999, felt a single emotion.

Well, not unless you counted anger, lust, greed, selfish pleasure. Alex knew those things well. He lied to his mother, lied to his classmates, who for the most part liked him. He lied to his doctors and teachers and everyone else. It was so fun tricking all of them, making them think he liked them.

Or in Mom's case, loved.

What was this obsession with love, anyway? Alex read books about it, heard songs about it, saw movies where they went on about it endlessly. And instead of disposing of kids who were never going to be productive, independent adults, or getting rid of adults who had ceased to be useful, whole societies had been built around the idea that every life was worth something.

Alex disagreed, but he had learned to keep that opinion to himself. He was more than smart enough to realize that such views would not be received well. Alex didn't want to get people looking at him. They'd think he was creepy or something if he behaved that way.

Better that they think he was a nice guy.

Or, most of them. Some kids at school knew very well that Alex wasn't that nice. His strong muscles enabled him to bully and beat up anyone he wanted to. He could make kids fear him without ever laying a hand on them. He could use all the right words to make them cry like babies. It was fun.

Alex considered knifing his tutor and just ending her bitching, but he decided to have another 'favor' instead. While she did her job, Alex sat on the edge of his bed, reading a book. Once it was over, he calmly pulled his underwear and his shorts back up and looked at her.

"I'm going to boarding school," Alex said in his clear voice, regarding her with crisp blue eyes. "I better not hear you told anyone."

"I won't," she said immediately. "I swear. I won't tell anyone. Just please don't hurt my family."

"I'll kill them all if you snitch on me, you fucking whore."

That brought her to tears again, literally kissing Alex's feet, begging him to show mercy. Alex was unmoved. Such displays of emotion only looked like weakness to him.

Then the front door slammed, and Mom called out, "I'm home!"

"You shut up, stop your crying," Alex hissed at her. Then he blinked, and his expression shifted, going from blank to excited and pleasant. "Hi, Mom!" Alex called, bounding up off his bed and running downstairs.

 **XX**

Julie was just setting the first bag of few bags of groceries on the kitchen counter when Alexander came running in. His sock-clad feet slid on the tiled floor, he scrabbled for control and lost it, and crashed in a heap at the base of the cabinets under the sink.

"Hi, Mom."

"Alex, did or did I not tell you about running in here with socks on just after the floor's been waxed?"

"You told me to not to."

"But you did it anyway."

"Aw, Mom. I just wanted to see you." Alex put on his best smile. "You know you love me."

Julie laughed. Alex resembled his father almost perfectly, in voice, appearance, and behavior. Pictures of Mark Evans at twelve showed him and his son to be nearly identical. But even Mark might have been surprised at what a shameless little charmer Alex was.

"Okay, Alex, you made your point. Go ahead and get up. Where's Danielle?"

Alex shrugged. "I think she's upstairs taking a shower." He grinned. "You know how I get her hot and sweaty."

"Alex!" Julie exclaimed. "I hope you don't talk to her like that!"

"Of course not, Mom," Alex said contritely. "She's just upstairs getting her backpack together."

"That's better. Maybe you've found out about girls, Alex, but I hope you've always been polite with Danielle. She's always spoken very highly of you."

Alex drew a comb from one of his pockets and started running it through his wavy auburn-brown hair. "Mom, she's my favorite. Come on. You know I'm always nice to her." He glanced at her. "I need some more weights for my room."

"Well, you're about to start at Gaiten Academy, Alex. I was thinking we had better wait-"

"I want my new weights." Alex said it flatly, and the sterner side of his father came out as he gave Julie "the look". There had never been a chance of swaying Mark from any position he decided to take, and when he wanted something, he didn't like being told he couldn't have it. This willfulness was something Julie had secretly hoped would be less prevalent in their son.

Unfortunately, Alex was worse, if anything. He was a good-natured and pleasant boy, all around, well-liked by his teachers and classmates. But the mere threat of his anger was significant. Julie didn't like to admit it, but he was scary when he blew up about something- just like his father had been.

 _If only Mark were here_ , Julie thought for the one thousandth time. _He would've matured even more, become more well-rounded, and Alex would've benefited from that. Being a single parent is tough, especially when his dad was Mark Evans_.

Julie still mourned Mark. She'd come to terms with her grief and managed to see a few guys since then, but things had always petered out eventually. None of the men she had known in the past twelve years had ever been what Mark was. They were always less. Less confident, less charming, less physically impressive, less capable in bed. The problem with finding someone so amazing as Mark, whatever his imperfections had been, was that everyone after that was a disappointment, or at least seemed that way.

Alex being virtually identical to his father had worried Julie at first. All those horrible things Henry and Mark did on the day they died, the newspapers and the television broadcasts with their names and faces repeated over and over… having a son who looked exactly like one of them- and for good reason!- could be a problem. But it had been over a decade, and few people still lived in Portland who recalled how Mark had looked when he was just about to enter middle school.

Still, her worries about someone noticing the resemblance had encouraged Julie to have Alex educated at the Waynflete School versus the local public schools, and when Gaiten Academy had made a generous offer because of his superb grades, Julie was tempted again because that would mean putting him farther outside of Portland, letting some more time pass so people could forget.

Julie wondered sometimes if she wasn't spoiling Alex in an effort to compensate for losing Mark. By showering the boy she and Mark had made in 1998 with love and giving him everything she could, Julie sometimes thought she was doing what Mark would've wanted or at least treating Alex well, giving him the best childhood possible.

 _Maybe hearing "no" more often would've been good for him_ , Julie thought absently. But what she said was, "I suppose I could get them the next time I go out."

"Two thirty-pound dumbbells," Alex said, still staring at her. "I want them, and I'm taking my weights to school with me."

"I'm sure we'll be able to work that out," Julie assured him.

Then Alex smiled. "Okay, Mom. I'll go get the rest of the groceries, okay?"

"Alright, sweetie."

It didn't take long for Alex to bring everything else in from the white Accord that Julie had replaced her old Topaz with back in January. He of course made a point of rolling up his sleeves and showing off the muscles he was so proud of, and worked so hard to build.

Danielle and Alex said their goodbyes after dinner, and Julie was proud to see how mature her son was in speaking to the high school senior. They'd really "clicked" since Danielle's first session here as a babysitter, and when some tutoring was added in, that was successful as well. It was a shame that they had to part like this, but at least they were both handling it well.

Julie was a little concerned about sending Alex, her Alex, the only legacy of Mark she could preserve, off to boarding school. He'd be all by himself, without his only parent to watch out for him. But then, given who his father was, there was every chance Alex would do just fine. Julie was willing to take that leap of faith and see.

 **XX**

Richard awoke from his nap to find someone shaking his shoulder.

"Richie, Richie. C'mon, time'ta wakeup."

"Huh?" the pale blond boy said, sitting up. He had been dreaming, imagining what his upcoming 12th birthday would be like. There were a lot of presents, he remembered that.

"You was asleepin, Richie," four-year-old Andrew said solemnly.

"I bet you could've left him alone and let 'im sleep some more," six-year-old Josh said.

"I wanna be makin' sure he's not sleepin' when we get to Gay-tin Academic," Andrew told him.

"You didn't think he'd died again, did you?" Josh asked with a snicker.

"Don' say it!" Andrew said immediately. "It's bad! Richie's not gon'die!"

"Be nice, guys," Richard told them. "That includes you, Joshua Holden Whiting the Fourth."

"You don't gotta say my whole name like that," Josh fussed.

"I just want you to play nice with little Jimmy," Richard said reasonably. "You can do that, right?"

"I guess," Josh said.

"Only if he's not mean," Andrew said with a scowl.

"He'll be nice," Richard assured him. "Okay, guys, now shake hands."

The two smaller boys glared at each other, but then shared a hug and shook hands. Just like that, the argument was over.

"Such a little gentleman," Dad said from up front in the minivan, a maroon Mercury Monterey, just a couple years old. It was called "GG" by the three boys because Dad had been so happy that it was in his old school's colors, "Garnet and Gray", outside and inside respectively, when the family found it at the dealership.

"Well, maybe he gets it from his father," Mom said from the front passenger seat.

"Maybe he does," Dad agreed. "Maybe he does."

Richard sobered a little at that line. He'd just been told who his father really was a few months back, the notorious murderer Henry Evans. He'd been Mom's boyfriend in high school, and they 'made a mistake' and she got pregnant. Henry had gotten messed up in the head, Mom and Dad said, so he killed a whole bunch of people along with his adopted brother.

The hardest part about it was realizing that Richard shared his biological father's face, even the color of his hair. Richard was handsome, excelled in class and on the soccer field, and was well-liked by his classmates. His teachers all said he was going to do great at Gaiten Academy.

When Mom and Dad told him, Richard had spent two hours alone in his room, reading and thinking. He also cried, albeit quietly so as to not upset his brothers or his parents. Richard was secretly proud to know his ancestry, because that meant now he could more fully reject his original dad's mistakes.

But it also meant being afraid that someone would find out who his 'real' dad was and judge him by that false example. Some days, Richard felt cursed. Cursed to have been fathered by a murderer, cursed with the face of a killer. He was determined to be all the good things that Mom had said about Henry, and to absolutely refute all of the bad. Richard felt like he had a purpose, now, beyond just taking care of his siblings. He had a secret legacy to reject and to live up to.

"Rich," Mom said, "you okay?"

"Yeah," Richard said. "Just thinking."

Mom turned around to look at him. "Anything in particular?"

"What's it gonna be like when I'm at my new school? Who's gonna tuck Josh and Andrew into bed every night? And read 'em stories? And sneak muffins outta the pantry so they can have a snack?"

Andrew giggled. "Richie, she's not supposta know 'bout that!"

Mom and Dad both laughed.

"Well, your Dad and I will do our best," Mom replied. "Everything will be okay. Don't worry."

"Dad, how'd you wind up going to a guys-only place for that long?" Richard asked curiously.

"Well, my Dad went to Gaiten, so he wanted me to go, and I liked it a lot. Then I went to Hampden-Sydney, and while I was on summer vacation in Maine I met your mom."

But is there a girls' school nearby?"

Mom and Dad laughed together again. Richard blushed.

"Yes, there is," Dad confirmed. "Near both of them. There's plenty of school dances between Gaiten Academy and Emerson School, so don't worry. And then for Hampden-Sydney, there's Longwood College."

"I was just curious," Richard insisted quickly. "I don't like girls or anything."

"Oh, you have _other_ preferences?" Dad asked, and Mom suddenly got a bad case of the giggles.

"No," Richard replied. "I mean _yes_! I mean _no_! It's, uh- I'm- I was just curious!"

"This is funny," Josh laughed.

"Hush, you," Richard said with mock sternness.

 **XX**

After an hours' worth of checking in at the front desk, the main office, the infirmary, the library, and half a dozen other places, Richard Holden Whiting was issued his first khakis, black Oxford-style leather shoes, white button-down shirt and a blue blazer. On the left side, just below the breast pocket, the Gaiten Academy crest was embroidered. It was an elegant-looking golden shield topped with a golden lamp, flanked by green laurel wreaths on either side. Underneath it, a scroll read "Aegis Fortissima Honos," or "Honor is the Strongest Shield."

 _Fancy_ , Richard thought as he changed in a fitting room, _but I like it_.

Once he buttoned up the shirt and expertly set the plain black school-issue necktie in a full-Windsor knot like Dad had taught him, Richard checked himself in the mirror. Pale blue eyes, silvery-blond hair, handsome, winning complexion… he couldn't help but smile. Josh Whiting III was his real dad, but at least his original father had given him some good looks to go forward with. That was nice of him.

Are you gonna make a mistake of your own? Richard heard a solemn voice asking him from some far-off corner of his mind. People like you already. So many people. What if you make a mistake with a girl and leave her like Henry did?

Richard sighed, letting the smile slip off his face. Ever since he'd started to first really think about girls, and then found out about his 'real' dad, Richard had held the fear that he'd repeat his dad's mistakes. At the very least, that he would become some big ladies' man and get careless and have a baby at sixteen or seventeen.

I won't be like that, Richard vowed, looking at himself in the mirror, so upright and handsome in his new school uniform. I will be different. I'll take the good Henry gave me and bury the bad forever. Just because I look like him doesn't mean I have to be like him.

With that, he stepped out of the changing room, smiled, and struck a pose in front of his family.

Mom was delighted. She clapped her hands a few times and glanced at her husband. "Oh, Josh, you see that! It's wonderful! He's so handsome!"

"He looks like a liar," Andrew said.

"Andrew," Dad said reprovingly, "that's not polite."

"But he does, honest!" Andrew insisted from under his sandy-brown hair. "Like he could go into a big room and talk to a-a _judge_ and everything!"

"Oh, you mean a lawyer."

"You wanna be a lawyer?" Josh snickered.

"I'll worry about that later," Richard shrugged. "Right now, I gotta get started at my new school."

"First things first," Dad said, nodding approvingly.

"Okay, everyone," Mom said, "time for a picture!"

As if on cue, the whole rest of the family groaned.

"Do we have to?" Richard asked, even though he was mostly kidding.

"Yeah, do we have to?" Dad asked, even imitating Richard's slouch perfectly.

"I do _not_ slouch like that!" Richard exclaimed, suddenly indignant. That got Andrew giggling again, and he set off Josh.

In the end, Mom convinced one of the tailor ladies to take a picture of everyone with Mom's digital camera. When Mom got the camera back after a few takes, she showed everyone the images.

"Hey, there's a handsome devil," Dad remarked, ruffling Richard's hair.

"Aw, Dad," Richard fussed, but he couldn't quite stop himself from smiling.

 **XX**

There was a blond kid sitting on the lower bunk reading a book when Alexander found his room and opened the door. The kid was sniffling, and when he looked up, his eyes were a little red. For fuck's sake, had he been crying?

"Oh, hey," the boy said. "I didn't hear you come in."

"You must be my roommate," Alex replied. "Were you crying about something just now?"

The boy blushed a little at that. "Oh. Well, um… I just said goodbye to my family," he said. "I just- this is my first time away from home. I kinda miss 'em. Especially my little brothers."

Alex walked further into the room, looking around. Central heating, new paint, decent-looking bedding and mattress, and plenty of space on the walk-in closets behind him, on either side of the door. Alex thought of his 'reading material' and his smokes and wondered if he should mention either of them. This kid seemed like kind of a goody two-shoes, but Alex could play that role flawlessly. So maybe this kid was different than he seemed.

"So you got brothers?" Alex asked.

"Yes," the boy nodded. He stood up. "I'm Richard. Richard Whiting." He held out his hand.

Alex glanced over, considered ignoring the gesture, but ultimately gave the kid's hand a quick shake. The other boy's grip was firm, but he winced when Alex tried applying some extra pressure. Alex snickered.

"Play any games with those brothers of yours?" Alex asked, tossing his bag up on the top bunk.

"Yeah, we play all kinds of games!" Richard said, smiling. Clearly, this was a topic he liked. "We play Monopoly, Candyland, Chutes and Ladders- I'm teaching Andrew to play Battleship, and Josh already knows. Josh is six, Andrew is four."

"Guess your Mom likes pumping 'em out, huh?" Alex replied with a laugh.

Richard blushed. "Well-"

"Come on, man. You don't still think the _stork_ brought you, do you?" Alex regarded the other boy almost pityingly.

The blond kid squirmed, visibly uncomfortable. "It's just- I don't talk about 'em that way."

Alex laughed again. "Okay, see, what happened was your dad took his dick and he-"

"I know how- I know how it happened!" Richard interrupted. "Can you gimme a break here?"

"Sure," Alex sighed, shrugging. "Whatever." He went to one of the two desks, pulled the chair out, and propped his feet up.

"Do you love 'em?" Alex asked.

"What?"

"You heard me."

"Of course," Richard replied, as if that went without saying. "Of course I love my family."

"Why?"

"Huh?"

"Why do you 'love' them? What'd they ever do for you?"

"Well, they- they- it's hard to explain. I just… I love them. I just do."

"Okay," Alex said, shrugging indifferently.

"So, what's your family name?" Richard asked.

"Michaels," Alex replied. "What, are you some dusty old aristocrat or something?"

"No, I just wondered what-"

"You wanna go have a smoke?" Alex asked suddenly.

Richard stared. "You brought cigarettes?"

Alex nodded. "Yeah. And I got some 'reading material' if you ask nicely."

"Oh, what kind of books did you bring?"

Alex sighed irritably. "They're fucking _Playboy_ magazines, Boy Scout," he replied. "Take a wild guess!"

Richard looked away, uncomfortable again. "I don't- well-"

"What, don't you _like_ girls?"

"I do, but-"

Alex suddenly sat upright and leaned forward, smiling. "Get your dick sucked yet?"

Richard blushed crimson. "What? Wha- no! I'm _eleven_!"

"Yeah, and I'm twelve, and I had a babysitter for the past eight months who could suck a golf ball through a garden hose. I gave it to her like sex was going outta style. Kept it secret, obviously. Can't have my Mom finding out I'm fucking the babysitter and getting the finest damn blowjobs you ever saw."

Richard stared at him, dumbfounded. After almost half a minute, he asked, "Are you making this up?"

Alex slapped his knee and lied. "Hell yeah, I'm making this up, Boy Scout! Passes the time, doesn't it?"

They both busted up laughing, and Richard visibly relaxed. He bought the lie, but that wasn't surprising. Already Alex was getting such a strong 'goody-two-shoes' vibe the kid had probably never had any real fun in his life. Crap, what a disappointment. Alex had been hoping against hope he'd get another kid who caught and tortured animals for fun on the weekends, but nooo. It was this dork.

 _Oh, well. Maybe I can 'teach' him some things_ , Alex thought. Loosen him up. _And if that doesn't work, maybe I can get him to do enough that if he ever tries to tell on me, he'll be in too far. And that'll just be until I find a loose railing for him to 'fall' off or something_.

"Okay," Alex said, getting up and going over to the bunks. He opened up his bag, found his Camels and the lighter, and stuck both in his pocket. "I'm gonna go out in the woods and smoke. You coming or not?"

"Well, they… you really shouldn't…" Richard said, eyeing him carefully.

"Why not?"

"They give you cancer. Bad for your lungs."

"Who cares?" Alex retorted. "You're gonna die anyway."

"I dunno…"

"Come on," Alex said, giving his roommate a shove. "Don't be such a dork."

Anger flared in the other boy's pale blue eyes. "Don't call me a dork."

"Okay, Boy Scout."

"Don't call me that either! My name's Richard!"

"Sure, Richard," Alex said, shrugging. "Now, you gonna live a little or what? Come on. Come on. What's the worst that could happen? Let's have a little fun, roommate!"

Richard hesitated, but ultimately he shook his head. "No," he said.

Alex stared at him. "What?"

The blond 11-year-old stared his roommate down, drawing himself up to his full height. "I said, no. I'm not doing it."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't want to," Richard replied, his irritation growing. "Because my parents told me not to, and-"

"Parents, parents, parents!" Alex snapped. "Listen to you, still doing whatever Mommy and Daddy say! I bet you're just too _scared_!"

"No, I _said_ I don't _want_ to!" Richard shot back. "Go ahead if _you_ want to. Go! I won't tell anyone. But you leave me out of this."

The auburn-haired and blond boy stared at each other for almost a minute; neither one of them moved or said a word. Finally, Alex broke away, sighing irritably. "Whatever. I'm going. Stay here and be a little teacher's pet if you want."

"I will!"

"Fine." Alex shrugged. "If you change your mind and decide you'd rather not be fucking boring… I guess even you'll know where to find me."

"Sure. Have a nice time."

Alex left.

 **XX**

Alex was fuming as he left the dormitory, skirted the edge of where the cameras could see, and headed off into the woods beyond the back lawn. Within two minutes of leaving the dorm room where his dork roommate was probably still standing around, Alex was lighting up and making a reasonable effort to calm down.

Reasonable.

"Jesus," he said, running a hand through his hair. "What's _wrong_ with him? Fucking dork." He took a drag, exhaled. "Bet his dad's some loser who's shit in bed." Alex snickered. "I bet ol' Richie's never even had a fuckin' boner."

What a disappointment. What a waste of time! Instead of someone cool, maybe even a partner in crime, Alex had been handed a total dweeb. He'd do his best to bring the kid around, try to get him involved in things that Alex could snitch on him for later, if things between them went south.

The worst part was that Richard showed signs of being quite the self-righteous kind of dork, the type that would actually show a spine in opposing you. Get in your way, block you, even physically, when you tried to bully a weak kid, for instance.

No, no. A dork? That was just annoying. But a dork with courage? Oh, that was _so_ much worse. Not good to have someone literally living in the same room as Alex, threatening his plans for a good time at this school.

If he couldn't be converted or controlled, maybe Richard would have to have himself an accident one fine day. Alex wasn't worried, in any event. No one and nothing was ever going to stop him.

 **XX**

Richard sat down on his bed on the lower bunk and let out a long, weary sigh. He felt like he'd just been through a fight. In some ways, he had been. What a shame. He'd hoped to make a new friend, and instead it looked like he'd failed completely. He might have even made himself an enemy, and one who shared a room with him, no less.

That wasn't what Richard would have described as "good."

Problem was, Richard couldn't see a way he could have handled it differently.

 _What did I do wrong?_ Richard wondered, briefly putting his head in his hands. _He seemed to be against me right from the start. It was like I amused him, and then I annoyed him. He even managed to tick me off. And I try so hard to be nice to everyone!_

But maybe that was it. Maybe… maybe Alex didn't want to play nice. Maybe that kind of behavior looked like weakness to him. Or something.

It disappointed and saddened Richard that the first meeting with his roommate had gone so badly. He felt guilty about losing his temper. Mom and Dad had taught him better. He'd have to try to apologize and make amends.

 _And what if that doesn't work?_ A voice in his mind asked. _What if he really is just as mean as he seems- or worse?_

If it came to that, Richard figured he could deal with it. He'd have to. Maybe he was starting to like girls, and maybe he did have some dirty thoughts now and then. Maybe he did feel the temptation to go smoke cigarettes and break the rules and be a rebel. But Richard had no intention of changing who he was to please Alex.

That was what Mom and Dad had always taught him. Do the right thing. Be honest. Be yourself. Things like that. Those still sounded like good rules to live by, and Richard was going to stick by them.

The blond 11-year-old decided to be optimistic about it. Either he'd win over Alex like he had old Grandpa Doyle, or he'd stand up to him. Fight him if he had to. Richard was not about to go along with any of this mean streak his new roommate seemed to have. He wasn't about to do anything he knew perfectly well was wrong.

Richard liked to think that even his biological father would have approved.

* * *

 **A/N: 12-12-2018.**

 **Completed the 8** **th** **chapter, epilogue for this alternate conclusion to "The Good Sons." This story is now finished.**

 **AM83220 and I talked about how Alex and Richard might grow up in a world where their fathers are not there for them like they intended to be. Given how Henry just showed up the way he was, probably due to some flawed genes in the family line, the chance of Henry or Mark having a son with that same flaw even without the influence of Fleetwood Hall is definitely there. But since Alexander was taken to Fleetwood Hall once as a newborn infant, we'll never know what he might have been like otherwise. A lot was stacked against him as a premature birth, so in some ways he benefited from being taken to the house.**

 **On the other hand, his visit there ensured Alexander would grow up tall, fit, handsome, and devoid of any conscience.**

 **The son that Henry conceived with Lisa Doyle, on the other hand, was a total wild card. He might have been cold and cruel just like his dad, or he might have been a genuinely nice and caring person, as an alternate Henry is in "A New Divide" by phorosz. Matter of fact, Richard Whiting in this story looks and acts just like the AU Henry Evans in "A New Divide."**

 **I made up a post-TGS story for Julie and for Lisa. Although she is nearly destroyed by the impact of losing Henry, Lisa devotes herself to raising her son, whom she coincidentally names Richard as Henry had planned (I don't believe Henry had ever shared his intended name for the baby with Lisa by the time of the POD in "The Downfall"). She happens to meet another handsome, wealthy guy after a few years, but this one actually does care about her and treats her like Henry always promised to. They got married and in 2005 and 2007 Lisa's 2** **nd** **and 3** **rd** **children were born.**

 **I referenced both the 1993 film and the 1993 novelization of the film by Todd Strasser in the scene where Alex is trying to convince Richard to go smoke with him.**

" **Garnet and Gray" are the official colors of one of the oldest colleges in the United States and the last one founded in the British colony of Virginia before it joined 12 others in declaring independence from the British Empire in 1776. That is the Hampden-Sydney College in Hampden-Sydney, Virginia.**

 **Special thanks once again to AM83220, phorosz, and fear2breathe. You guys are the best. I apologize for taking 3 months to complete the story from all the progress made back in September 2018.  
**

 **Feel free to share your comments on this chapter and/or this story in a review. Thanks for reading.**


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